


The Hardest Part

by oneoneandone



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneoneandone/pseuds/oneoneandone
Summary: I will not kiss you'Cause the hardest part of thisIs leaving youThere's no opponent they can't beat. As long as they're together.
Relationships: Ashlyn Harris/Ali Krieger
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

_When they look back, all the warning signs were there.  
_

_They’d just been too wrapped up in life, too busy to notice them._

_Until it was too late._

_Until they had no choice._

* * *

_[July]_

The sound in the stadium must be deafening, but Ashlyn hears nothing. Nothing but the sound of her heart pounding in her chest, the slow and deliberate in and out of her breath in the cool evening air.

There, down the long green yards of the pitch, is her team, their white uniforms illuminated in the rippling flashes of light from the stands as fans try to capture the moment that will decide the game. One by one, Ashlyn blocks them out, erasing them from her thoughts and her sight, until only Ali remains.

 _You can do this, Ash_ , the voice in her head says, the voice that is Ali’s and Ali’s alone. Maybe once upon a time it had been her grandmother’s, her brother’s. Her coach from high school, her trainer, her oldest friend.

But now the only voice Ash wants to hear, the only one that matters, is Ali’s.

She nods down the field, knowing that the other woman sees, and then pushes Ali out of her head as well.

And now it’s just her and her final opponent, the ball and the goal and the yards in between.

* * *

Ashlyn was never supposed to be here. Not in this sport, not in this team, not in this game or on this pitch.

Not the girl from Nowhere, Florida. The girl who’d struggled and scraped and scratched every step along the long road here, who’d lost everything and had to start over, from the very beginning, more than once. 

She was supposed to stay, back home. Wait tables for too little money, drink away the dreams that were beyond her reach, spend the early mornings trying to surf away from her small life in her small town.

Like her mother.

Like her mother’s mother.

Like everyone in her whole damn life.

But she’d seen a light, a way out of her empty beach-side town. She’d seen it and she’d grabbed for it with both hands, pulled it into her body and held on for dear life.

She’d been holding on to it ever since.

* * *

She should be nervous. Ashlyn knows this, knows that she should feel the chill of cold sweat pooling at her spine, the tremor of fear at her jaw.

But she’s not. She hasn’t been since the second she hear Jill shout her name after Hope went down on the field in the last game, since she felt her cleats dig into artificial turf to take her spot between the posts as her teammate was helped off the field, hand clutched protectively to her chest.

This is her moment now.

This is the moment she’s been waiting her entire life for.

* * *

Ashlyn flexes her gloved fingers, rocks on her heels before dropping into her stance.

She’s loose.

She’s set.

She’s ready.

* * *

Before she even registers the sound of the player’s foot hitting the ball, she’s in motion, lunging to her left and then launching herself into the air with her hands outspread.

And then she feels it, the hard, satisfying _thunk_ of the ball in her hands and Ashlyn pulls it in, cradles the heavy, firm weight of the ball to her belly as her body hits the ground.

Now she hears the noise. Now she hears the crowd, the roars of approval, the cheers. Now she hears her name chanted throughout the stadium as she drops the ball and rises, hands in the air, victorious.

She’s done it.

They’ve won.

* * *

In the morning, the papers run with a picture of her, arms outstretched as she runs down the field toward her team, the headline proclaiming her victory proudly; _Harris Saves: US Keeper Holds Off Germany in Shootout for World Cup Victory_ , reads the big, bold text.

But Ashlyn couldn’t care less. Not at the moment.

She’s too busy celebrating with the love of her life, her teammate and her best friend. She’s too busy struggling against the pleasant weight of Ali on top of her, hands gripping tightly at the sheets underneath as the brunette leaves teasing love bites along her breasts, the strong muscled wall of her abs, the slightest curve of her hips, before crawling back up her body to kiss her lips.

She’s too busy gasping for air, Ali’s name on the tip of her tongue, as the woman she loves slips one finger, then another, inside her, kisses her again, deeply. When the brunette begins to thrust, to drive Ashlyn closer and closer to release, Ash bucks her hips up into Ali’s and fights to keep her eyes open, to keep watching the champagne gold of Ali’s eyes. Until, with a few sure swipes of Ali’s thumb against her hard, aching clit, Ashlyn throws her head back and comes with a soft, throaty cry.

“Alex.”

* * *

Later, they linger in the shower, and Ashlyn kisses Ali with hungry lips as the hot, hot water beats against their skin. There are interviews and appearances on their schedule, but for a little longer they can be just them, just Ash and Alex, two women in love.

When she finally sees the paper, brought in with the room service they’ve ordered for breakfast, it’s not the big picture that captures Ashlyn’s attention, her moment of victory. It’s the smaller one inside that she sees and can’t tear her eyes away from.

No one else, Ashlyn knows, who looks at this picture will understand what it means.

But for her?

This picture captures last night’s most precious victory in pure black and white.

* * *

She feels the wind in her hair as she runs to close the distance to her teammates.

It’s Morgan who reaches her first, of course, who grabs her by the shoulders with a joyful scream. And then there’s another set of arms around her, and another.

But Ash has eyes only for Ali. For her Alex.

And then there she is, Ali, leaping into her arms. In an instant, Ashlyn forgets about the game and the save.

This woman is the most perfect weight she’s held in her hands all night.

In her whole life.

Someone grabs onto the back of her jersey, throwing her off-balance, and the two women sink to the ground, Ali still hugging her tight, whispering in her ear.

“I’m so proud of you, Ash,” Ali says, and kisses her with soft, loving lips, before wrapping her arms around the blonde’s neck.

Bodies circle around them in celebration, and for a moment, they’re hidden from view. And Ashlyn doesn’t know if it’s an accident, or if it’s on purpose–their teammates giving them the gift of a private moment on the pitch–but she’s grateful.

Because all of the things she thought were her dreams have just come true.

But she’s just realized something.

All of those dreams she had growing up? Getting out of Florida, playing soccer, winning a world championship title?

None of those dreams mean more than the woman in her arms.

Nothing means more than Ali.

* * *

“Alex,” Ashlyn whispers against Ali’s ear, just loud enough for the brunette to hear over the noise of their teammates, the crowd.

When Ali pulls back there are tears in her eyes, and Ash can feel her own tears running down her cheek.

“We won,” Ali whispers, pride and joy and awe in her voice, but Ashlyn doesn’t respond. She’s too busy memorizing the way the light flickers in Ali’s champagne-sweet irises, the way Ali bites at the corner of her bottom lip, the way Ali’s hands toy with the short hairs at the base of her neck.

“Marry me, Alex,” Ashlyn breathes out, her voice round with wonder and full with love.

Ali looks at her, frozen for a beat before the corners of her mouth begin to lift into the beautiful smile that never fails to stoke the loving fire in the blonde’s heart.

“Marry me, Alexandra,” Ashlyn says again, slower this time.

Ali’s eyes brighten with new tears, and she nods, biting at her lip again.

“Yes,” she answers, “yes,” and it’s this moment that Ashlyn will remember forever about tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

_She has a big heart, Ali does, and she uses it well. She gives her love generously, and without strings, always willing to welcome someone into her fold, always willing to make room for one more. **  
**_

_But there’s always been a hierarchy to the things Ali loves._

_Her family first. Her mother, and now her step-father too. Her dad. Kyle and Luna. They all make up her core, the foundation of the woman she grew to become. And others, grandparents, cousins, the adorable new branches that keep growing out of her large family tree._

_Then there’s soccer, of course, because the only times she’s ever felt truly herself, truly complete, are when she’s standing on that pitch, feeling the cool air on her legs as her eyes track the ball, her opponents, her team. When life was hard, when she didn’t feel like she could rely on her family, when they were busy dealing with their own troubles and trials, soccer was the thing that saved her, that steadied her. Losing herself in a match, in the breath-stealing pace that left no room for wondering, for worrying. The hits and the strain that left no energy to dwell or to linger on life off the field._

_And then the usual, God and country and team, the friends and lovers and acquaintances she’s collected over the years, a whole other list of things she couldn’t name if she tried._

_But then she met Ashlyn. Tall and blonde and beautiful Ash. Ashlyn with the mischievous eyes and the lively smile. With the long, strong limbs and the capable hands that Ali spent way too much time trying to stare at without understanding why._

_And Ashlyn, Ashlyn didn’t fall into any of Ali’s carefully constructed categories._

_Ashlyn was something else entirely._

_A whole new kind of love._

_Ashlyn breaks all of Ali’s rules, every last one of them, and for the life of her, the brunette never can remember why she thought she needed them in the first place._

* * *

_[July, cont’d]_

Eventually, life settles into its usual pace. World Cup fever dies down a little bit after what seemed like an endless stream of interviews and appearances and events. It had been fun, of course, and Ali enjoyed sharing the team’s success over and over and over again, but it had also been exhausting. Even more than the World Cup itself.

But there’s something magical about the attention as well, watching the whole nation fall in love with Ashlyn, watching them catch up with what an amazing player and woman her girlfriend is.

In all of their appearances, Ash has been front and center, the USWNT’s World Cup hero. She’s the player the journalists want to talk to, the one people want pictures of, autographs from. And it makes Ali so happy, so proud.

Finally the world has noticed what an amazing player Ashlyn Harris is. Finally, Ash is getting her moment–well deserved and long-overdue–in the spotlight.

It’s about damn time.

* * *

“What were you thinking about in those final seconds, when you were staring down the opposition from the goal box?”

It’s a question Ashlyn gets in every interview, without fail.

Each time, she gives the standard answer, evading the real question underneath.

“Oh, you know,” she says with an appropriately humble smile, “just didn’t want to let my team or my country down.”

But Ali knows differently. Or, Ali knows the levels that that question involves. Of course Ash was thinking of her team, her country, winning the World Cup for the United States. But Ali also remembers watching her lover’s face there in the box, squaring up for that final kick.

Standing there, just outside of the penalty box, Ali could feel the blonde’s warm, brown gaze upon her. Could feel, from halfway across the pitch, the strength of Ash’s love, how it fed the goalkeeper’s determination, her drive.

She knows, Ali does, that the last thing Ash thought of before the ball came flying toward the goal was her, was them.

Was her.

* * *

It’s crazy. It’s a fucking pandemonium in the stadium. People yelling, confetti, balloons, fireworks.

Everywhere their flag, everywhere their country cheering them on, rejoicing, celebrating their victory as Ash rises from the pitch, ball clutched tightly to her chest. Safe.

For Ali, everything is moving in slow-motion. The nod of Ash’s head, the way the blonde plants herself into the pitch, eyes sharp and keen. The sound of the kick, watching as the ball flies toward the goal, as Ash moves in tandem, placing herself in its path–Ali sees everything through a thick fog, the same fog that holds her in place, that prevents her from moving as she realizes what’s happened, that Ashlyn has done it, won the Cup.

But it’s not real until she’s in her lover’s arms, until she and Ash are tumbling to the ground, their teammates all around them.

And when Ash asks, when the words slip, unguarded, from her girlfriend’s lips, there’s only one answer.

“Yes.”

* * *

They haven’t gone public with the engagement yet.

Honestly, they haven’t even gone public with their relationship yet.

At first it was because of Ali, the struggles she faced overcoming her. But in the end, it’s a decision made by both of them. A realization that neither women have any desire to live in the public eye more than they have to. In public, they’re professionals. In private, they’re Alex and Ash, and no one who matters, no one who is important to them, is confused about who and what they are to each other.

So for the moment, no one knows outside of their immediate family–their parents, Chris and Kyle, a few more of the people closest to them. But no one from the team. Not yet. They’d decided against telling the girls, as much as they wanted to be able to share their exciting, joyous news. Neither of them want to steal the spotlight away from the USWNT and their fabulous performance as a team.

There’s a ring, of course, tucked under Ali’s shirt on a chain when they’re in public. Ashlyn’s had it for months, carrying it with her from match to match, tournament to tournament, waiting for the time that seemed right, that seemed perfect. It’s simple and elegant, a plain silver band with a single diamond, and Ali falls in love with it the moment Ash slides it onto her finger.

When she finds out that it belonged to Ash’s beloved grandmother, that Elise had given Ash her blessing to give the ring to her, the brunette is overcome. It’s all she can do to reach for Ashlyn and pull her in, until their mouths meet, and kiss the blonde desperately.

She’d known, she’d always known, that Ash loved her.

But until that moment, sitting on the blonde’s lap in the big, messy bed of the room their teammates had arranged for them to have some time alone in, she’d truly realized just how deep that love went, what Ashlyn was giving her.

Not just her heart.

Her soul.

* * *

Getting back into their old routine at home, with the Spirit, is simple, especially after months of intense preparations for the World Cup. Ali and Ash slip into the familiar schedule, the daily training and the weekly games, with relative ease.

Their teammates welcome them back with smiles and hugs and congratulations, and Mark shakes their hands proudly.

And then it’s back to the pitch, to the drills and scrimmages and it’s like they never left.

* * *

At practice they keep their distance, just like they always have. The team knows that they’re dating, knows that they live together, but on the field, in the stadium, they’re professionals. First and always.

For the most part, especially now five years into their relationship, it’s easy enough. They’re a part of a team, of a larger family, and they try to remember that.

Some days they help each other out with stretching, with warming up. Other days they don’t. There are the days when each group of players drills together, and there are the days when they’re put into teams and set to scrimmage against each other.

There are days when Ali scores on Ash, and days when Ashlyn blocks every shot, her keen eyes tracking her girlfriend’s every telegraph and intention.

There are moments, too, that test their patience, their resolve. Moments that scare them.

Ashlyn going down after a set-piece, rolling on the ground in pain. Ali will never forget the way her heart leapt into her throat to see her girlfriend clutching her head, her whole body spasming with the effort to not cry, to shake off the hard blow to the head and get up again. It was hard, standing over Ashlyn, seeing that beautiful face scrunched up in pain and not being able to comfort her the way she wanted, to wrap Ash up in her arms and hold her until the pain went away.

Instead, she’d had to clench her hands into tight fists until the urge passed, until she was sure she could touch the blonde safely, reassure the goalkeeper with a hand on her thigh, on her arm. Ali’d almost cried again when the trainer did the same for her, reminded her to breathe as well. Honestly, she’d almost forgotten how.

Oftentimes, when she’s not on the field, when she’s on the bench watching her team play, Ali struggles to watch their own goal. Ash is such a physical player, the position demands it of her–demands that she throw herself into the air to block the ball, to jump into a huddle of players to punch the ball away from the goal.

Sometimes, the watching is too much, and Ali has to close her eyes, or stand and pace and not look.

It’s easier when she’s playing. Her back’s to the goal often enough that she doesn’t see every hit, every contact, every leap and lunge and soar. And the even the ones she does see are easier to absorb, lost in the quick pace of the game, the need to get back on the ball, to clear it downfield, to shoot it off to someone who can make a play.

She’s never asked, but sometimes Ali wonders how Ashlyn handles it. Because unlike her, always running up and down, chasing the ball, Ash sees everything, the whole field, every movement and every motion. When Ali gets hit, when Ali goes down, the goalkeeper can’t help but witness it.

Ali remembers waking up on the pitch in April, eyes unable to focus, and hearing her girlfriend’s steady, calm voice. And underneath the soothing words, the tiny thread of fear that Ashlyn was trying to swallow down.

“Alex, keep your eyes open, stay with me, it’s okay,” Ash repeated over and over as the trainers and medics worked around them. Ali had been scared–of course she’d been scared, unable to keep the memories of Vancouver in 2012, the thought of the upcoming World Cup tournament out of her mind. But somehow, hearing her girlfriend’s voice, feeling the way Ashlyn squeezed her hand, had made her feel better, had made her feel safe. Like nothing bad could happen.

She’d replayed Ash’s words over and over as the doctors checked her out in the training facility, and once again when they’d determined she needed to be transported to a hospital for further tests. As she was asked by each new medical professional, each new nurse and intern and doctor, if she knew what day it was, where she was, what her name was, what had happened. Until, she remembers, the blonde showed up at the side of her hospital bed, freshly showered and with a bag full of things to keep them busy while Ali was stuck under observation, and could say them again in person.

Her strength. Her rock. Her light in the darkness.

Ashlyn is all of these and so, so much more.

* * *

“Away, away, away,” Ali hears Ashlyn call from the box as she looks at the set-up for this corner kick.

Two minutes left in their first Spirit game in months, and they’re up 1-0. If they make a mistake now, if there’s some fluke and the ball makes it into the net, or Ash can’t make it back to the goalline before someone heads it in, they’ll lose their advantage without enough time left to gain it back. And the Spirit need a win if they want to make a play for the championship this season.

With a _thwack_ , the ball’s in play and sailing toward the cluster of players set up in front of the goal, then a _thunk_ as two, no three, leap to make contact.

It comes out in Ali’s direction, headed to her by one of their midfielders, and she punts it down the pitch to where her teammate is waiting to receive it. She doesn’t pause to make sure they’ve got it–she trusts her team–before she sets off in the same direction, ready to defend if the need arises, turning her head only for the slightest of seconds to wink at Ash as she goes.

They’re back. They’re home.

It feels damn good.


	3. Chapter 3

_Their relationship hasn’t been easy. Not always. There have been ups and downs, there have been breakups and reconciliations.  
_

_They both needed time to mature, to figure out what they wanted._

_To realize that what they wanted was each other, only._

_The first years were the hardest, the awkward way they teetered back and forth between friends and teammates and something, something more._

_Sometimes, when Ash thinks back, she’s amazed they made it here. To this place. A place where they are sure, where they are confident. About who they are. About what they are to each other._

_There was a time when she thought it would never happen. A time when she was afraid that Ali’s fears would keep them from ever being truly together, truly happy. There were times when she wasn’t sure she could wait any longer, wasn’t sure she could hide anymore._

_It had come to a head with Ali’s heart-breaking injury on the way toward the 2012 Olympics, when Ashlyn flew in to support the woman she’d begun to realize had become everything to her. There’d always been love between them, but during those months as Al recovered, as she worked and strove to be ready in time for the roster to be released, something had happened, something had grown between them._

_Something more than love._

_Trust._

_Faith._

* * *

_[September]_

They lose to the Reign in the NWSL championship. They lose to Hope in the box and Rapinoe on the left.

But neither Ali nor Ash can be too upset. They played their best, and as a whole the team had really pulled together to give the Reign a run for their money. They’d certainly improved from the year before and, Ali promises Megan as Ash stands behind her and rolls her eyes, “just wait until next year.” 

And so the Spirit pack up their lockers and their equipment and say their goodbyes, each heading back to wherever they call home. Some to their waiting families, some to the jobs they’ve put on hold to play, others overseas to try their hand at an international league, a premiere team.

But not Ali, not Ashlyn. Not this year.

This year they’re staying put. Stateside, at least. They’ve got too much preparation to do with the national team, too many camps to attend as the USWNT fills its roster for the Olympics in Brazil in just a few short months.

Plus, their mothers remind them, they’ve got a wedding to plan.

* * *

They end up sending a mass text to their national team teammates rather than wait for the next time they’ll see each other in person.

It’s a simple message.

Not even a message, really. A picture.

Two hands, folded over each other. Two gleaming rings on their fingers. Ali’s simple single stone, heavy with the precious weight of history, of lineage, of Ash’s grandmother’s blessing and love. The ring she’d given Ash upon their return to D.C., the wider, sturdy band with the neat little row of inset diamonds.

It’s Rapinoe who figures it out first, who sends back a text message of celebrating emoticons and cake in response.

The rest of the team shortly follows suit.

The last one to respond, of course, is Tobin. But when she does, it’s a single image, a thumbs up.

* * *

Wedding planning is exhausting, Ashlyn discovers pretty quickly. There are so many decisions to make and options to choose between that she feels kind of lost in the process.

They fly down to Florida to meet up with their moms and Ash’s grandma, and suddenly Deb’s house is a flurry of bridal magazines and business cards and flyers for some Southern Florida Annual Bridal Convention that boasts over fifteen hundred vendors on-site.

It’s overwhelming, and soon the blonde finds herself begging off from this shopping trip or that one. And it’s not that Ashlyn doesn’t have thoughts or wants for her wedding. It’s just that whenever she thought about it, the few times it crossed her mind as a kid, or when she’s imagined it more recently, imagined what it would feel like to marry the love of her life, she hadn’t been too focused on the details.

And, to be honest, they haven’t even set a date yet. They’re still trying to decide whether they want to do it before or after the Olympics, and where–Florida, DC, somewhere else entirely–much less how big and what style and what kind of cake they want.

She knows she’s probably annoying Ali with her laissez-faire approach to the whole thing, but all Ash truly wants out of her wedding is to wake up the next morning married to the love of her life, the woman who challenges her and pushes her and loves her better than anyone else she’s ever known. All Ash wants is to say the words and kiss her before throwing one hell of a party for all their family and friends. The rest of it, she’s flexible.

* * *

“Do you even want to get married,” Ali asks one night after telling her girlfriend about the beachside-venue she and the moms had seen earlier that day while Ash went out and caught some waves for the first time in what seemed like forever.

“I mean, do you even want to have a wedding,” the brunette clarifies, rolling over in their bed in Ali’s mom’s house, “or do you just want to grab our family and do something quiet, just us?”

Ashlyn looks down to where Ali’s head is resting on her shoulder, the one not marred by surgical scars, and tightens her hold around the other woman’s waist, letting her fingers dip just under the band of Ali’s panties.

“Of course I want to get married,” she answers with a kiss to Ali’s hair, “and yes, I want to have a wedding with you. How could I not? I know how much you love them.” 

“Yeah,” Ali murmurs as she snuggles closer into the blonde’s side, playing her fingers along Ash’s ribs, “but so far it’s just me and Deb and your mom and grandma talking about things and making decisions. I know it’s not as big a deal to you, having a wedding, so if you don’t want one–”

But she doesn’t get a chance to finish. Ash moves quickly and flips them so Ali’s on the bottom, and settles into the cradle of the brunette’s hips.

For a minute, she just looks down at the woman under her, the woman whose heart she feels beating against her own, and when Ali brings up a hand to brush back tendrils of hair from Ash’s face, the taller woman turns her head to leave a gentle kiss at her palm.

“Our wedding is a big deal, Alex,” Ashlyn whispers, her words punctuated by soft, sweet kisses. “Marrying you is a big deal.”

She looks down into Ali’s brown eyes as she kisses the corner of Ali’s mouth.

“I may not have a big plan for how I want us to get married, Alex, but I know I want you to have what you want. I want you to have the kind of wedding you’ve always wanted. So if there’s something I really have an opinion on or really care about for the ceremony or the reception, I’ll let you know. But,” Ashlyn whispers against her girlfriend’s bare neck, “honestly? My only requirement is you. Everything else is just a bonus.”

“Promise,” Ali asks quietly, and the blonde can see the thoughts play across the underside of those cinnamon eyes.

Ashlyn nods. “I promise,” she answers, “I just want to marry you, Alex.”

And it’s true. She just wants to be married to Ali. If she wants a wedding because she knows Ali’s always wanted a wedding. But even more, because she wants to watch Ali’s dreams come true, watch as everything her perfect woman has been thinking about since she was a little girl playing dress-up with her brother comes together.

She wants to be there, with the love of her life, while it all happens.

And as for her? Well, Ashlyn’s dreams came true the same day Ali Krieger stepped into her life.

Everything since then?

Just a bonus.

She teases her teeth along the underside of the brunette’s jaw, rocks her hips against Ali’s, just the slightest, pleased when Ali groans in response.

“You know,” Ali says from under Ash, “I’ve never made out with anyone in this room before.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ash’s smirk is immediate. And dangerous.

That kind of hot and dark sexy that Ashlyn can pull off so easily.

Ali’s answer gets lost in a sharp intake of breath as Ash lowers her head.

* * *

Their first post-Canada training camp takes place in Texas, and when Ash and Ali board the plane, they’re both still recovering from the colds they’d caught from some inconsiderate fellow traveler on the way back from Florida two weeks earlier. Ashlyn blamed the businessman sitting behind them, Ali the teenagers in the next row, the ones who couldn’t keep their hands off one another the whole flight back.

But it really doesn’t matter who gave them the colds, they’d got hit. Hard.

Well, Ali had. Ash’s bout had been pretty standard. A cough, a stuffy head, and after drinking her weight in hot tea and chicken broth, she was well on her way back to the top of her game.

But Alex’s cold had lingered, leaving the brunette exhausted and frustrated. Honestly, Ash wasn’t certain that they’d picked it up in the airport after all, or at least on the way back home. Because Ali’d been a little listless their whole time down in Florida, lacking the usual seemingly endless supply of energy that made her unstoppable on the field or at any major shoe sale. If she didn’t value her life as much as she did, the blonde would have suggested that maybe Ali’d been the one to get sick first, to pass it on.

And true, they’d been on a bit of a vacation, but even with the excitement of finally getting to sit down and talk about the wedding, set some details, pick a date, Ali’d been a little out of it, a little off. She’d been the first one to fall asleep at night and the last one to wake in the morning. She’d picked at her food instead of eating with her usual hearty gusto, and even though they weren’t training at full-speed, she’d seemed to lag behind a little bit on their morning runs.

But Ali insisted she was fine. And if she had two cups of coffee in the morning to get her going, or if she fell asleep in Ash’s lap on the couch as they watched terrible reruns of reality TV with Deb, well, she brushed the brunette’s doubts away with a wave of her hand.

She was on vacation. She was happy. She was with some of the most important people in her life. Everything was perfect. Who wouldn’t want to move a little slower, to take some time to savor it all?

Still, though, Ash worried. Ali’d just seemed a little off, and the blonde hoped that her girlfriend would be able to shake the last of it before they really got into the swing of things at camp.

* * *

A talk with Jill after dinner confirms what they already suspected, they’ll continue to room apart at camps and on the road if they’re called up. Neither protests, it makes sense. Their minds have to be on the pitch, in the match, and not on other things.

So they’ll continue as before. Separate rooms. Separate schedules. Same rules as everyone else if they can keep to them. “After all,” Jill points out, “it if ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Before she lets them go, though, to unpack and tuck in for the night, she gives them each a small, quick hug.

“I’m proud of you both,” she says, “on the field and off.”

* * *

In the elevator, on the ride up to the team floors, Ali presses Ash against the wall and kisses her fearlessly.

When they arrive at Ash’s floor, the brunette pulls away and with a gentle swat at her girlfriend’s ass, pushes her toward the doors that are slowly opening.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Ali says with a grin, “we’ve got an Olympics to win.”

If her laughter echoed down the long hallway, if it disturbed her teammates as they slowly got ready for bed?

Ash didn’t mind at all.

She’s in love.

She doesn’t care who knows it.


	4. Chapter 4

_There were times when Ali wondered if she’d spent her whole life afraid. Of monsters under the bed and in the dark and hiding behind the neat rows of shirts and dresses and pants hanging in her closet.  
_

_Of making a mistake, of not being good enough, of failing and disappointing her parents, her brother, the people who loved her._

_Of wanting something, of having dreams and never being able to achieve them._

_Of being left behind, forgotten._

_Alone._

_The one place Ali had never been afraid, never thought about who was watching or what she was doing, was on the pitch. It’s the one thing that had always made sense to her, always felt like home._

_Surrounded by her teammates, cheering fans in the stands, Ali always felt like anything was possible, like not even the sky could hold her back from her dreams, her heart._

_Soccer is the thing that gave her courage, soccer is the thing that put the rest of the world within her reach. Soccer holds all the beauty of life out to her, gives her the strength to want it, to take it._

_When she fell to the ground in Vancouver, when she pounds her fist against the cool grass and cries, she’d known it was over._

_The pain in her knee was indescribable, like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and for the first time since college, since the pains in her chest and the breaths she couldn’t quite catch, she felt afraid of what might happen if this is the time she leaves the pitch forever._

* * *

_[September, cont’d]_

There’s something wrong, Ali knows it.

She’s a professional athlete, it’s her job to know the ins and outs of her body, the well-oiled machine she’s spent years training and molding into shape. And now, laying on her back in her hotel room, staring up into the dark as her roommate slept on the other side of the room, Ali finally admits it to herself.

Finally allows herself to admit it.

Something’s off, something’s different. And it’s terrifying.

There’s the cold she hasn’t quite been able to shake, the cold that really never felt like a cold. There’s the exhaustion, the way her body refuses to do what she asks out on the pitch, in the weight room. Her body is sluggish and slow and Ali doesn’t know what to do.

* * *

They’re in the final days of camp when one of the trainers pulls her aside, wanting to talk about what’s going on. And that’s when she knows, when she lets the little voice at the back of her head, the voice she’s been hiding from for weeks now, have its say.

“You’re underweight,” Mike tells her, “at least ten pounds since the last camp, so we’re going to talk to the nutritionist about some options. But the training team wanted to ask if there’s something that might be going on, something we don’t know about? Have you switched to a new diet?” 

He reaches out and touches her knee, uncertain about how to broach the next question.

“Ali, we all know the kind of pressures athletes are under to stay in shape, to keep fit. So I need to ask–have you been purging?”

She doesn’t laugh, it’s a question that needs to be asked. She’d watched friends and teammates over the years struggle with eating disorders, struggle to keep their bodies at a certain size, certain weight, certain level of performance. It’s a serious issue, and so when she gives her answer, she tries to make sure he knows she’s being genuine, that she is aware of the dangers and the ease with which one could slip into the unhealthy habits.

“No, Mike. No. Never.” She looks him straight in the eye. “I haven’t really had an appetite lately. I thought I was just getting over this cold that Ashlyn and I picked up, but I don’t know anymore. It’s been weeks. I’m not hungry, and because I’m not hungry I’m tired all the time.”

The trainer takes notes as she speaks, scans her up and down.

“And it’s affecting my performance,” Ali admits, and there are tears gathering in her eyes. Because now it’s real, this problem that she’d tried to ignore. But she can’t anymore, she can’t.

Because they’re trying to win a gold medal, these women who are her friends, her family, and she hasn’t been able to give them what they need from her, she hasn’t been able to support them.

“We had started to wonder if maybe running with Ashlyn in the off-season was slowing you down, putting you off your pace,” Mike says, teasing her gently, trying to put her at ease, “because you’ve been clocking more like a goalkeeper than a defender this week.”

The tears start to fall now, and Ali wipes them away with an angry swipe of her arm against her eyes. It’s out in the open now, whatever it is, it’s been said aloud. And she’s angry at herself and scared in a way she hasn’t been in years.

“Look, Ali,” Mike says, “we’ll have the team doc have some bloodwork done, see what’s going on, get you all sorted out. It’s probably just stress from the past months–I mean, you were on the road for a month in June, playing high-intensity games every couple of days, traveling in-between. And then after the Cup you jumped right back into the end of the season with the Spirit. It’ll be okay. We’ll probably just need to pump you full of some vitamin supplements, customize your diet, and take a look at your training schedule.”

When he sends her out with a light pat on the back and a smile, Ali feels a little better. And the tight hug from Ash after dinner, as they lay on Ali’s bed in the room she shares with Meghan and watch a movie before curfew, helps even more.

“I’m glad you talked to Mike about it, Lex” the blonde whispers, and even half-asleep Ali can hear the relief in Ashlyn’s voice, can feel the way those strong arms hold her just a little tighter, love radiating through their touch like warmth.

“Me too,” she answers, and then lets the movie, some comedy Ash picked out, lull her to sleep as her girlfriend’s breath–her fiance’s breath–tickles at her ear.

* * *

When she sleeps, she dreams. She dreams of falling in love with Ashlyn, of realizing she’d loved the blonde from the very start, from the first time the goalkeeper’d come up to her and introduced herself, loud and brash and with eyes that glittered with laughter.

Ali dreams of a past that never was, one in which she’d been brave enough from the start. Brave enough to listen to her heart, to listen to the sound of her name on Ash’s tongue, how careful, how tender. How full of love and want.

In reality, she’d held Ash at arm’s length for so long, afraid to acknowledge the feelings growing inside her, the warmth she felt, the gentle love. Afraid to want what she thought she couldn’t–shouldn’t–have. Afraid of the things other people would say and think and do if she gave in to herself, if she let herself be who she wanted to be.

But in the dream, she isn’t afraid, she isn’t ashamed. In the dream she’s never been anything but brave and loved and in love, and when she wakes it’s with a heart light and full.

She’s wasted time, so much time, Ali knows, and there were times when she hurt the people she loves, and times when she hurt herself. But she’s survived, she’s survived it all.

And here, laying in the cool hotel bed in the quiet of early morning, the lively scent of Ash’s soap clinging to the sweatshirt she stole out of the blonde’s bag to sleep in, Ali knows she wouldn’t change a thing.

Not a minute.

She’s never been a religious person, Ali hasn’t, but if there’s one thing she believes in, it’s that everything happens for a reason. Their road to this place, this moment, may not have been easy, may have been full of detours and dead ends and broken bridges, but they’d made it.

Together.

Through it all.

If taking the hard path gets her here? Ready to start a life with the woman she loves. World Cup champions. Heading toward the Olympics? If she can make it through everything in her past, all those obstacles and defeats, and still end up right here, right now, they can do anything.

 _Give us the hard and broken road,_ Ali thinks to herself, _and watch how far we’ll go_.

* * *

Jill doesn’t usually come in to observe the goalkeepers’ sessions in the weight room, and so when she steps into the gym, a blank look on her face, Ash’s stomach drops.

She doesn’t know how she knows, doesn’t know what it is inside her body that tells her something’s wrong, but she knows. Something’s happened. There’s been an accident.

Her family, maybe.

Her grandma.

Ali.

It’s Ali.

She can see it in Jill’s eyes as the coach makes her way over to where Ashlyn is standing next to the leg press she’d just finished using.

Something’s happened to Ali.

Her legs feel weak in a way that has nothing to do with the weights she’s just been lifting and everything to do with deep, sinking ache in her stomach, the way she can’t seem to catch her breath.

“Ash,” Jill says, and her voice is soft, and quiet, and so normal-sounding that it a piece of Ashlyn begins to hope she’s wrong, that somehow she’s gotten herself worked up for nothing, a misunderstanding, a mistake.

“There’s been an incident on the pitch, Ali collapsed and an ambulance has been called. She’s on her way to the hospital now for some tests.” 

The younger woman wants to cut in, wants to ask any of the thousand questions exploding through her head, but Jill puts a gentle hand to her chest and Ashlyn reigns in the impulse. As she wonders if Jill can feel tell that her heart has just stopped beating, her lungs stopped pulling in air.

“You’re excused from practice for the rest of the day,” the coach continues, “and as soon as you’re ready we’ve got a van waiting to take you to her.”

Ash can barely hear anything over the roaring of her pulse past her ears.

This isn’t the first time Ali’s been injured, this isn’t the first time Ali’s been hurt.

But this is the first time it wasn’t a hit on the pitch, a collision with another player, a header with too much force, that’s the difference. Ash knows soccer, knows the toll it takes on the body, the bruises and scrapes, the hard hits and the awkward falls. She’s seen them and handled them since she put on her first pair of shin guards all those years ago, the little field just to the side of the beach, the ocean.

This isn’t a soccer injury, this isn’t something Ash knows how to handle, how to help heal.

This, her gut tells her, that ache, that forbidden thought that’s been teasing at the corners of her brain now for days, for weeks, is something different.

Something much, much worse.

“She’ll be okay, Ashlyn,” Jill tells her, wrapping her up into a motherly hug.

As Hope and Alyssa look on, confused and worried, Ash lets herself hold on tight for just a moment, and hopes with everything inside of her that she’s right.

* * *

Ali wakes to a strange room, dim and cool.

She doesn’t need to ask, doesn’t need to wonder.

She knows exactly where she is, has woken up like this before. For a moment, her thoughts hazy, Ali wonders if it’s all been a dream, if everything since she went down on the field in BC, London Gold in reach, has just been some opiate dream. Ashlyn, Sweden, the Cup–

“Hey, you’re awake–,” Ali hears from her side, pulling her out of her thoughts, her most painful of memories.

It’s Ash, and in an instant, Ali feels some of her fear melt away.

“What happened,” she asks, turning just the slightest to better see the blonde sitting in the chair next to the bed.

Ashlyn’s hair is up in a messy ponytail, and it makes Ali think of lazy Sunday mornings, waking up with Ashlyn in their big bed, watching as her girlfriend stretches her long limbs before combing her fingers through her tangled hair, reaching to the nightstand for a tie to pull it back. She was always so soft in the mornings, and there was little that made Ali feel more at home, more at peace, than seeing Ashlyn in the early morning sunlight, all shy smiles and gentle hands.

Now, though, she looks tired, worry sitting heavy on her brow as she uncrosses those long, lean legs and sits forward, passing her phone back and forth idly from one hand to the other.

Ash takes a deep breath.

“You collapsed on the pitch at practice,” she says, “Coach and the training staff decided to call an ambulance.”

And Ali lets out a small moan at that, knowing how her teammates must be concerned and worried right now. Her phone–wherever it is–is probably blowing up.

Ash’s phone vibrates but she doesn’t stop to look at it, just keeps passing it hand to hand nervously, as if there’s something she’s dreading, something she doesn’t want to say.

“What did the doctors say,” Ali asks, stretching out her toes under the light blanket of the hospital bed, “when can we head back to camp?”

“Alex,” Ash starts to answer, but can’t finish, can’t say whatever she’s trying to say.

She rises from her chair and Ali can see how tightly she’s holding herself, every motion carefully measured. As if the blonde is afraid of what might happen, what she might do, if she lets herself move freely, speak freely.

Ashlyn stands next to the bed, silent until Ali takes her hand and pulls her down to sit on the edge of the bed next to her.

“What,” Ali asks, “what’s wrong?”

“They haven’t told me anything,” Ashlyn says, and Ali can feel those long, familiar fingers spelling out words that she can’t make out against the cool skin of her arm, just above where someone’s inserted an IV line.

“They can’t tell me anything,” the blonde clarifies, “because I’m not family. But I called your mom and dad, and she should here by tomorrow morning.”

“What’s going on, Ashlyn,” Ali asks again, more demanding this second time.

But Ashlyn cannot answer her. And not because she doesn’t want to, but because she has no answers to give.

“All I know, Alex,” she says, “is that there’s something wrong with that blood sample Mike and the trainers took yesterday, something they want to follow up on. I was supposed to call the nurse when you woke up so she could call for the doctor.”

Ali doesn’t know what to say. It all feels overwhelming, waking up in the hospital, tired and sore and confused. She’s annoyed–with herself, her body. With the trainers for calling an ambulance. With the hospital, for not filling Ashlyn in, and even, though she hates herself a little bit, with Ash, for not having the answers, for not being able to tell her what is going on.

So instead of saying anything, Ali just looks up at Ash, at this woman she loves, this woman she trusts with every part of herself.

“It’s going to be okay, Alex,” Ashlyn says, taking Ali’s hand into her own, “whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out.”

And with a kiss to Ali’s knuckles, careful not to disturb the tubing there, Ash pushes the call button.

And they wait.


	5. Chapter 5

_Patience. **  
**_

_Waiting her turn._

_It had never been Ashlyn’s strong suit._

_When she was little, she couldn’t wait. To be old enough to play with her brother. To reach this milestone, that one. To grow up. To leave._

_She’s spent her life chasing things, always trying to run a little harder, a little faster, always trying to catch her dreams._

_Waiting meant standing still, meant staying in one place, meant having faith that in time, what she wanted would come her way._

_She couldn’t do it._

_So she pushed and she pressed and she never stopped, never let herself take a moment, take a breath._

_And then there was Ali._

_Alex._

_And suddenly Ashlyn was okay with being patient, with waiting. Suddenly she had all the time in the world to wait for the most amazing woman in the world to realize they were falling in love, to be ready to take a chance, to be with each other._

_Ali taught her how to walk the road, taught her about the journey, all the things Ash had never paid attention to in her focus on the goal._

_Ali helped her to trust–in herself, in their team, in them–and now Ashlyn has no problem waiting for her turn. For her time._

_She knows it’s coming._

_She can see it there, just a little further down the line._

_Now it’s waiting on her._

* * *

_[September, cont’d]_

Cancer.

The word sits heavy on Ashlyn’s mind and she finds herself clenching her fists sometimes, trying to hold back the scream that’s been building ever since the doctor came in yesterday afternoon to fill them in on what’s going on.

Too much of some kind of protein in Ali’s blood, a hormone out of control, more tests, an ultrasound, admitted to the oncology ward … the words came at her in groups, bits of info that she could just barely understand.

But what Ash did understand was the look on the doctor’s face, that sad, “I’m sorry to have to tell you”-face, the same kind of face her grandmother’s doctor had when he’d come in to tell them that the lump in Elise’s breast was cancerous.

It’s that look that she hasn’t been able to get out of her mind yet. That and the way Ali’s face just crumpled at the doctor’s words.

It’s Vancouver in 2012 all over again.

It’s being so close to her dream, again, and having it snatched away from her. Again.

It’s realizing that this time, it’s not just her career on the line, her future as an athlete, it’s her life.

* * *

Jill excuses them from the last two days of camp. Ashlyn, really, Jill excuses Ashlyn, hugging her close with tears in her eyes and promising that whatever they need, she’ll be there for them, the whole team will.

Everyone’s so quiet and kind and understanding, it just makes Ashlyn angrier, and as she packs up their bags, as she folds all of Ali’s things into the rolling suitcase that is always so neat and orderly, Ashlyn lets herself cry. Lets the tears and the fears that have been building ever since the moment Jill walked into the weight room the day before fall free.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and her whole world has been turned upside down.

She has no idea how Ali’s handling it, not really. No idea how Ali hasn’t shouted or screamed or thrown something.

It’s what Ash would do.

But Ali’d just sat and listened, and though her lower lip had trembled, and though her face fell, she’d held herself together.

At least until Deb had shown up bright and early at the hospital, straight from the airport, looking like she’d been up all night.

Ash is certain that she hadn’t looked any better. The nurses had given her a blanket and a pillow but there wasn’t much chance of her getting any sleep last night. Not like this. Not with the woman she loved out in the hospital bed to her side, not with the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads like this.

She’d spent most of the night watching as Ali slept, watching the ins and outs of her love’s chest as she slept restlessly in the cool hospital room.

She’d spent most of the night praying, begging, pleading with any of the spirits who might listen.

 _Please,_ she’d whispered, _please let her be okay._

Ashlyn whispers it again now, with Ali’s pajama bottoms crumpled in her hand to catch her tears. She doesn’t hear the soft snick of the door opening behind her, doesn’t register the presence of someone else in the room until the bed shifts under someone else’s weight and strong arms embrace her from behind.

Whitney.

Her best friend doesn’t say anything, just holds her tight, and Ash is grateful for the silence as much as the comfort.

She just needs a moment, just a moment to be weak before she goes back to Ali and this all becomes real. Before she has to go back to the hospital and be strong for Alex.

Strong for Alex, who didn’t tell her about the other signs. The pain in her belly that would come and go; like cramps but worse, she’d told the doctor last night. Things she just wrote off to playing a full-contact game with focused and determined professionals, with hard tackles on the field and intense physical activity. Things Ali’d thought were just a consequence of the pressure and the nerves of the World Cup and it’s aftermath.

With Whit’s arms around, Whit’s chin digging into her back to ground her, remind her that she’s not alone, Ashlyn sits and cries and tries to bury the anger building within her.

Anger at Ali, for not telling her everything that was going on. For not listening when Ashlyn suggested she talk to the trainers right away.

Anger at herself, for not watching the woman she loved closer, for not seeing everything, every little thing that’s been going on.

Anger at the world, in general, in its entirety, for letting this happen. For letting it happen to Ali, her Alex, the kindest, loveliest person she’s ever known.

For not choosing her instead.

Because, oh, how she wishes it had. This, this she would take upon her own shoulders if she could, if some god or spirit would only grant it.

She would take any pain, any consequence, if only to spare the woman she loves more than she’s ever loved anything in her life before.

More, even, than she loves herself.

* * *

“Can you tell me what happened,” the doctor asks, another doctor in a long line of men and women who have come into Ali’s room this afternoon. They’re starting to all blend together in Ash’s mind, and she’s glad that Ali’s mom is here to help keep everything straight for them all.

Ali really isn’t any help herself, mildly doped on a painkiller prescribed to ease an ache Ashlyn’d only heard about the night before.

“I was on the pitch, and we were in the middle of drills,” Ali says, pausing to take a sip from her styrofoam cup full of water and ice, “I’d been having cramps for a couple of days, and just played through. I thought it was just cramps, that they’d been worse because of training and the Cup.”

“But yesterday,” she continues, “yesterday it was like fire, like someone was cutting me open. And I just, I couldn’t stand or breathe or speak, it hurt so bad.”

The doctor asks how long she’s been experiencing pain, and where, and how intense, and presses his fingers into her bare abdomen with his gloved hands. And when Ali winces, this woman who can take more pain than just about anyone Ash has ever known, with the exception, maybe, of Abby, it’s a gentle touch from Ali’s mom that keeps her in place, keeps her from reaching out and making him stop hurting her girlfriend.

She just clenches her fists instead, and keeps her eyes on Ali’s face, those sweet brown eyes, letting Ali focus on her instead of the pain.

She feels useless in this room. But this, the steady rock, the solid presence to lean against?

This she can do.

This she can be.

The doctor–Mahood, Ash thinks–comes back in the morning, disturbing the blonde’s silent vigil while the opium slides through Ali’s blood and holds her, sound asleep.

And part of Ashlyn wants to tell him to come back, when Ali’s more awake, when Deb can be here with them, but she knows that the sooner they have answers the sooner they can start working on a game plan to defeat whatever it is.

So she shakes Alex gently, wakes her up with a warm kiss on the forehead and watches as the confusion clears from those soft eyes, as the memory of the past two days slips back in.

“Hey,” she says, running her hand along Ali’s, as much for her comfort as her girlfriend’s, feeling the cool band of metal there, “the doctor’s here.”

And as they listen to him speak, the only sign Ash has that Ali’s as scared as she is is the way the brunette squeezes her hand with more and more force.

It’s cancer, the doctor tells them, confirming the other doctors’ suspicions with the results of yesterday’s biopsy from one of the masses the ultrasound had identified in Ali’s ovaries.

It’s cancer and now, now their real struggle begins.


	6. Chapter 6

_It blindsided her, falling for Ashlyn. It took her completely by surprise. **  
**_

_She’s never been a fan of surprises._

_At first, it was friendship. At first the blonde was just a new friend, someone who made her laugh and someone who always had her back, on the pitch and off._

_But it grew from there. Ashlyn was the one person who always understood, who always knew what Ali needed. Ashlyn was the person Ali called when she was worried about her performance, when her day was rough, when she was worried about Kyle. The one who was always honest with her, who picked her up when she was down, who pushed her when she couldn’t push herself any further._

_Ashlyn was the one who always came back. Who took everything, all of Ali’s darkest moments, and forgave her for them. Who told her it was okay to have them._

_And it was easy, how neatly the blonde fit into her life, into her heart. So easy that Ali didn’t even realize what had happened until it was too late, until it was all over._

_She hadn’t handled it well, wrapped up in all the things she’d always thought she wanted. Her mind’s idea of who she’d always wanted to be. A couple of medals to display proudly. Someone to walk down an aisle toward. The laughter of children and the bark of a dog and the cool grass under her bare toes._

_A small and quiet life._

_And Ashlyn was none of those things._

_Ashlyn was louder and wilder and Ashlyn lived so, so big. She filled up a room and she made her laugh and nothing, nothing felt better than when they were together. When she was sitting on the warm beach watching the blonde run to chase another wave, or arguing over what to listen to on the radio as they drove the half-hour to the pitch to train. Waking up and realizing that they’d fallen asleep on the couch together watching another of Ash’s marine biology documentaries, or making cookies together for the holidays._

_But Ali hadn’t been ready to look at herself, to look into her heart and see who she had become, the difference between what she’d wanted way back when, and who she wanted to be now._

_It was hard and it was painful and she’d damaged them both in the process. She’d almost destroyed what they had together._

_But Ashlyn had been patient, and Ashlyn had been understanding, and eventually Ali’d found the strength she needed to be brave, the strength she needed to ask her own questions and find her own answers._

_Eventually, she realized that the pain she was feeling? The hurt and the heartache, wasn’t because of what she was leaving behind, those childhood dreams._

_It was what she was poised to lose._

_After that, the decision was easy._

_After that, it really wasn’t a decision at all._

_She chose Ash._

* * *

_[October 2015]_

“Alex, you can’t be serious,” Ashlyn says, a quiver of fear-tinged disbelief in her voice, “you can’t seriously be thinking of putting the surgery off.”

But when Ali doesn’t answer, the keeper knows it’s true.

They’ve been back in DC for just over a week, and it’s been a whirlwind of tests and consultations and second opinions, of praying that it’s all been some kind of mistake, some mix-up.

But there was no error. The diagnosis stands.

This is real. This is actually happening.

There are tumors in Ali’s ovaries and every doctor’s voice sounds a little more urgent when telling her girlfriend that she should schedule surgery as soon as possible.

“There are things to think about,” Ali says from where she’s sitting in the breakfast nook, the built-in bench that catches every ray of the morning sun. She’s on the bench now, knees pulled up to her chest and hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that’s gone cold, and she won’t–or maybe can’t–turn to look her girlfriend. Just keeps staring out the window, face blank, and she looks so small and so broken there, in one of Ashlyn’s over-sized hoodies and a pair of compression tights, thick socks bunching up around her ankles.

And everything about her in this moment breaks Ashlyn’s heart. The way her breath catches every few seconds, the tremble of her upper lip, how she bites at it to keep it under control.

How still, still, she can’t turn around, can’t look at Ashlyn. Because to look at Ashlyn would be to admit that the blonde is right, to admit that this is real and happening and waiting won’t solve anything. To look at Ashlyn would steal away the last, last, last strings of her control, break through whatever final wall is holding back the tears from falling off her fluttering lashes.

The blonde is torn between a pair of conflicting desires. On the one hand, she wants to go over to her partner and shake her, yell at Ali until the other woman gives in, until the other woman understands that there is no choice to make here. There’s only one road.

And on the other, Ash wants nothing more than to go up to Ali and take the other woman into her arms, to wrap her up and hold her tight. To never let her go.

It’s the fear and anger that win out this time, after days of watching the woman she loves shut down, after days of watching the strongest, most resilient person she’s ever met sit, still and quiet, and refuse to move, refuse to save herself.

“What, Alex?” Ashlyn asks, louder, angrier, perhaps, than she intends. But she can’t be sorry, she won’t be. Because Ali, finally, has turned around to look at her.

It feels like the first time in days, the first time since they got back from Texas and began the process of making appointments and calls. Ali’s spent days trying not to talk about it, trying to focus on anything else whenever Ash or Deb bring it up, ask her how she’s doing. She’s told her father, but hasn’t talked to Kyle more than a few minutes at a time, afraid to tell him, afraid that it will send him back to the dark places that almost killed him more than once.

She watches Say Yes to the Dress with her mother but refuses to think about their own wedding, refuses to look through the bridal magazines that are full of notes and Post-Its, refuses to open the binder full of ideas and swatches and business cards that she’s been compiling since their first trip back home after the Cup.

She curls into herself in bed at night, and there’s this space, this vast expanse of sheets and blankets, between them now. Before, before Texas, there was nothing between the two of them, and Ali fell asleep every night with her ass settled into the hollow of the blonde’s hips, or with Ash’s head nestled on her shoulder, just above Ali’s perfect breasts.

She’s pulling away, slowly but surely. She’s disappearing, piece by piece, from the life they’ve just begun to build together, and every day it’s like there’s another part of her gone.

It’s worrying Ashlyn. It’s scaring her.

And enough is enough.

* * *

“What, Alex,” she says again, and this time her voice is softer, defeated, and the tears that have been gathering in Ali’s heart for days start to fall.

“What could there be to consider,” the blonde continues, “it’s your life. You heard the doctors. If they don’t go in and remove the tumors, the cancer will get worse. It’ll metastasize. What are you waiting for?”

The kitchen is silent now, all but for the sound of Ali struggling to breathe through her tears.

“Al,” the taller woman tries again, almost pleading.

“They’re not just talking about removing the tumors, Ash,” Ali says, grasping tightly at the mug in her hands, “they want to remove my ovaries too. You heard the oncologist, the plan is to take both of them.”

Her voice is rough, and Ash wonders how often her girlfriend’s been crying by herself in the shower, or sneaking away to their bedroom to scream into her wadded-up pillow, or sitting alone downstairs before anyone else wakes, scenarios and percentages running through her head in the early-morning quiet.

“So we take out both of them, Ali, and then we move to the next stage, and the next. We do whatever it takes to get you better, Al.”

The confusion in her voice is clear, this isn’t the Alex she knows inside and out. This isn’t an Alex afraid that her career might be over.

This is an Alex she’s never seen before.

“It means I can’t have children, Ash. It means that big family I wanted, the one we’ve just started talking about, is never going to happen.”

And then Ashlyn understands. Everything, all the missing pieces, fall into place. Ali’s afraid–of losing her dream of being a mother, of losing Ashlyn, of this disease that holds her life in its hands.

She moves toward the corner nook, sliding onto the bench next to Ali, and mirrors the brunette’s pose. When she takes the mug out of Ali’s hands, her fiance resists, like that mug was the last thing tying her here, the last thing keeping her attached to this world, this life.

“Alex” the blonde whispers softly, and wraps her hands around Ali’s, holds them tight within her own. She lifts their linked hands up to her mouth, presses a firm, gentle kiss to Ali’s palms, and thinks of countless nights, laying in bed, talking over the future with the woman she would ask to be her wife.

From the first moments she allowed herself to dream of that future with Ali, Ashlyn knew it would be one filled with family, with love and home and children. Ali spoke of it often, wanting kids someday, wanting to be a mother. And though Ash had never really entertained the idea of children personally, at least not beyond the acknowledgement that she’d be the coolest aunt ever to all her eventual nieces and nephews, when Ali talked about it, talked about a future together surrounded by children, she could picture herself right there beside the brunette.

She could picture herself a mother.

She could picture her Alex growing round with their child, all glowing skin and adorable pregnancy cravings. Imagines what it might feel like, to watch and wait with Ali, to see her wife and child together for the first time, to hold a baby in her arms and know that she’d helped to bring this child into the world.

And now, as everything sinks in, she can feel those dreams, that future, slipping away.

Or, a version of those dreams. One possible future.

Ashlyn sits silently for one second, two, before taking a deep breath, before squeezing Ali’s hands again in her own as she opens her mouth to speak.

“This isn’t the end of that dream, Ali,” she says, and her voice is gentle and loving as she runs her thumb soothingly over her girlfriend’s palm, “not by far. The future might look a little different, that’s all.”

Ash lets go of Ali’s hands to wrap her arms around the other woman’s waist, and then pulling the brunette closer, until Ali was almost in her lap.

“I’m going to marry you, and we’re going to have kids, lots of them,” Ashlyn tells the woman whose tears are dripping down her face to fall on their legs between, “enough to field our own team, even, if you want.” 

“But,” she says, and brushes a lock of hair out of Ali’s eyes, “we can only chase that dream if you’re here. If you’re alive. If we fight this and we win.” 

Ali looks up at her with her large, doe eyes, wet and gleaming in the early morning sun.

“You’ve got a brother too, Ali,” Ashlyn reminds her, “so we ask Kyle to donate instead of Chris, and I carry our kids. Or we use a surrogate. Or we adopt any of the thousands of kids who need a good home. Our dreams aren’t over, Alex, not by a long shot.”

Ali buries her head in her partner’s shoulder and lets her tears soak into the soft cotton of Ashlyn’s t-shirt. They sit there for a long time, Ali quietly sobbing, a combination of grief and relief, while the blonde rubs wide circles on her back.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, with only the sound of the brunette’s heavy breathing as she slowly calms and the soothing murmurs that Ashlyn whispers into her ear to fill the air, and Ashlyn hears as Deb makes her way down the stairs to peek into the kitchen.

They lock eyes, Ashlyn and her girlfriend’s mother, and though the bags under Deb’s eyes are heavy, and the corners of her mouth are turned down with unspoken worry, seeing the two women there on the kitchen bench, Ali taking her comfort from the blonde, she knows that a corner has been turned. She knows that Ash has been able to get through to her daughter.

Thank you, she mouths, and backs out as silently as she entered, seeing the acknowledgement, the relief, plain in Ashlyn’s eyes.

* * *

They sit a little longer, until Ali’s breathing is steady again, and then Ashlyn taps her on the arm.

“Come on, babe,” she urges, “let’s go upstairs. You’re exhausted.”

And it’s just proof of how drained Ali is that she doesn’t offer a word of protest, just slowly rises, sluggishly, as if she’s moving through water, and lets Ashlyn guide her up the stairs and down the hall to their bedroom.

The blonde settles her fiance into their unmade bed and pulls the covers up to Ali’s shoulders. But as she starts to move, Ali grabs for her hand.

“Stay,” she asks tentatively, and it’s a heartfelt apology for closing Ash out, for trying to struggle with her worries and her fears alone. Without her teammate. Without her partner.

Ash slips into the bed next to her, and for a moment, for a second, it feels just like every other time they’ve lingered together in bed for a lazy morning. All but for Ali’s eyes, red and swollen.

The blonde stares down at her, and Ali can feel the silent plea in her gaze, in the warmth of Ashlyn’s body against hers.

 _Please don’t close me out again_ is the unspoken petition in Ashlyn’s light eyes. And Ali answers with a squeeze of her hand around her fiance’s fingers.

_I won’t._

“I love you, Alex,” Ash whispers, feeling as the brunette’s body slowly, slowly relaxes, slips closer and closer to sleep.

It’s with an airy breath that Ali replies, almost lost as she turns to press herself into Ashlyn, bury her head into the pillow of Ash’s body.

“You, too.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Ashlyn watched, horror in her eyes, as Ali slammed her hand hard against the pitch.  
_

_One friend rubbed at her shoulder, another looked over at her from across the table and assured her that Ali would be okay, she was strong and tough, he said._

_But Ash knew immediately–it was bad. Knew it from the way Ali clutched at her leg, face contorted in agony. From the way she stayed down on the ground instead of bouncing right back, getting up to take advantage of the opportunity the coming free-kick the ref awarded the team._

_Sitting there at a sports bar around the corner from her Rochester apartment, she knew._

_When the medical staff carted Ali off to the sidelines, Ashlyn knew, they left her Olympic dreams on the field behind them._

* * *

_[October, cont’d]_

Once Ali schedules the surgery things move quickly, and it becomes apparent just how deeply this illness will affect her life. The tumors may be confined to her ovaries at the moment, but the malignancy spreads unchecked throughout every corner of her life.

There are more appointments and more tests, and Ashlyn jokes that there isn’t anything the doctors couldn’t already know at this point. It’s a lame joke, but it gets a laugh from Ali.

And there are meetings with Jill, who is kind and understanding, and even though she makes no promises to hold a place for Ali on the Olympic roster–because Ali makes it clear that as far as she’s concerned, she will be cured by then and she will be healthy enough to play and she will earn herself a spot on that team–she doesn’t cut Ali immediately either.

“We’ve still got time to make that decision,” she tells the couple, and then they set some preliminary plans to continue her training as much as her treatment will allow, as long as the doctors sign off on it.

So then there are meetings between her doctors and her trainer, her doctors and the USWNT medical staff, her doctors and her coach and her trainer and the staff all together.

It’s frustrating and exhausting and soon they’re both tired of saying and hearing the same things over and over again. Tired of the ‘ifs’ and the ‘buts’ and the ‘depends.’

But at least, Ash keeps reminding her fiance, at least they’re moving forward. Taking action. Getting something done.

Still, though, Ali puts off telling Kyle.

The surgery is scheduled for Monday, and even though she’s talked to her brother several times in the past week alone, the brunette’s been putting on a fake cheer and done everything but flat out lie to Kyle. Even Ashlyn has to admire her skills at changing the topic, thankful that her soon-to-be brother-in-law is easily distracted into sharing stories of whatever he and Luna have been up to lately. Beyond the worry, that is.

But as Friday turns into Saturday, and the hours slip toward Sunday, Ash can’t let her concern go unspoken any longer.

“Babe,” she says as they lay awake in their bed, Ali’s back pressed tight against Ash’s front. Neither is able to sleep just yet, nerves and thoughts of what might lay ahead filling their heads. “You need to tell Kyle, honey,” she whispers, and feels Ali stiffen in her arms at the words.

“You can’t keep him out of the loop on this,” she continues, gently rubbing her chin in the hollow of Ali’s shoulder, “it’s not like the last time, Alex. He’s strong. he’s been clean for years. He can handle it.”

Ali doesn’t respond, just brings her hands up to cover the blonde’s where they rest against her ribcage, as if Ashlyn needs to feel the steady beat of her girlfriend’s heart beneath her palms.

And Ash lets her be quiet, lets her words sink in, lets Ali consider them and think them through.

“I’m so afraid,” Ali says into the silence, and the blonde understands. Ali’s whole life–their whole life–has been thrown into disarray, and the things they stand to lose?

The things Ali might lose?

It’s too much to even think about.

This, this not telling Kyle, Ashlyn knows it’s only Alex’s way of trying to make sure she doesn’t lose him, doesn’t lose him to his demons and his addictions again.

Ash just hugs her closer. “I know, Alex,” she whispers, and she does. She really, truly does.

“But, honey, you can’t protect him from this. You have to let him make his own decisions and you have to trust him, trust his recovery. Because you’re going to need him. This is going to be hard, it’s going to be so hard. You’re going to need his strength and his love and his support, Alex.”

The brunette shifts in Ashlyn’s arms, turns until they’re facing each other.

“I know,” she whispers, and buries her nose into the blonde’s sweatshirt, “I know.”

Her voice is sleepy now, and her words trail off into the dark as Ashlyn strokes her strong back, runs her fingers along the curve of her hip.

“Tomorrow,” Ali sighs, and Ashlyn feels the last bits of tension, of wakefulness, slip from her partner’s limbs.

Ash fights the desire to follow, to let herself slide into the sweet, soothing release of sleep, the desire to let unconsciousness transport her into dreams where nothing is wrong, where this terrible spectre no longer hangs over their heads.

But it does. It does hang over their heads, it does threaten them.

Ashlyn doesn’t know how long she has, how many more nights she’ll be able to sleep with Ali in her arms. The forever she’s been wishing for since almost the moment they met isn’t guaranteed anymore.

Maybe it never was.

All she knows, laying there in the dark, is that she’s not going to let herself miss a second of whatever time she and Ali have left.

A day. A year. A decade.

Forever.

She’s going to cling to them all.

* * *

No matter how many times it she experiences it, Ali will never get used to the sensation of waking up after surgery. The dry, cottony feeling in her mouth. The heaviness of her body, her limbs. The slightest thread of pain, strung through the fog, the clouds in her head. But the worst was always the nausea, the way the anaesthetic made her empty stomach roll and twist and turn.

A nurse appears at her side, but whatever she’s saying gets lost in Ali’s struggle to focus, a struggle she loses.

It could be minutes or hours before she comes to again, but it’s probably not very long at all. She’s still in the recovery room, and as soon as one of the nurses notices she’s awake again, the surgeon is called to update her.

“It went well,” the doctor tells her, standing at the foot of the bed and looking over her most recent vitals, “the tumors were confined to the ovaries. We removed both with no complications, and there was no sign of any metastasization. We’ve sent samples to the lab, and your oncologist will receive the results and discuss the next steps of your treatment with you within a day or two.”

Ali is able to follow what he’s saying for the most part, even through the last tendrils of fog hanging over her head, but she must look concerned, because he puts her chart down gently on the bed and gives her an open, genuine smile.

“Truly, Miss Krieger, your surgery was textbook and you came through with flying colors. I can go and update your family now if you’d like, or I can come back when you’re settled into a room.”

She’s pretty sure she tells him to find Ashlyn and her parents in the waiting room, but the sweet pull of sleep takes her under again.

* * *

When she wakes next, there’s a quiet murmur of voices in the background, and she catches bits and pieces of words as she floats in that pleasant place between sleep and opening her eyes.

She feels clearer this time, more awake, more coherent. The fog that has been clouding her thoughts and her dreams has dissipated for the most part.

“You awake there, Ali Cat,” she hears her dad say in his quiet, patient way. And when she turns her head, she sees him, folding over a page in his book, some military thriller he probably picked up on a whim in the checkout lane at the grocery store.

She hums her answer, mouth still dry and cottony, and he reaches over for the styrofoam cup on the bed-tray to her side, bringing it to her mouth so she can sip the cold water.

“What time is it?” Ali asks once she can swallow without wondering when she accidentally ate sandpaper.

“Just after two,” he tells her, “you’ve been in and out of it ever since they brought you into the room.”

And as he says it she remembers bits and pieces of awareness, snatches of waking moments. Her mother’s hand on her arm, her father’s calm questions for the doctor, Ashlyn running long, soothing fingers through her hair–

“Where’s–” she starts to ask, but her father smiles and answers before she can even finish the question.

“Your mother went out to get us all some lunch,” he tells her, “and Ashlyn went to go pick up Kyle from the airport. He said he’d take a cab but she was getting antsy.” His eyes are fond as he speaks of her girlfriend and Ali’s struck for a moment by how lucky she is to have found someone her whole family loves and has adopted as one of their own.

They sit for a while, chatting about nothing, until Ali asks if the doctor mentioned anything about when she might be released, and a look she remembers from long ago falls over her father’s face. Like he’s nervous, maybe, or afraid.

Sad.

It reminds her of the look he had the day he and her mother announced that everything Kyle and she’d known up to that point, their whole world, was being torn apart. That their parents were going to get a divorce.

He looks like he wants to promise her that nothing will happen, that nothing will change, that everything will be alright.

He looks like he knows that those are all promises he won’t be able to keep.

And the strangest thing is how she wants to comfort him, wants to make those same promises. That she’ll be okay. That this will all pass over, without a mark, without leaving behind any permanent scars.

But with every breath that she takes, every motion that pulls against the small incisions on her lower torso, she’s reminded that that’s not true.

“Hey,” her mother says from the doorway, two big bags of take-out containers in her arms, “you’re awake, and for real this time.”

They sit for a while, talking about nothing in particular. Old memories. That time that Ali brought a stray dog home and tried to talk her way into keeping it. When Kyle got his driver’s license and how soon the shine of his newfound freedom wore off when he tired of being the one sent out to pick up his sister from her soccer practices every night. The night Deb accidentally set a pizza on fire when she put it into the oven without removing the cardboard. 

The three of them laugh at the memory, and for a few minutes everything feels right with the world.

And then suddenly the room is filled with noise and life. Kyle rushes up to her in the bed and wraps her in a tight hug.

“Careful,” the other three all say at once, but Ali’s grunt of pain is enough for him to loosen his hold and pull back, just the slightest, so he can look at her.

“I want to be so mad at you right now,” he says, “but I’m saving it for later.” 

Kyle holds her at arm’s-length for a moment, and looks, really looks at her. Ali watches as he swallows away whatever thought was on his mind, on the tip of his tongue, and covers the slip with a bright smile.

“Gurl,” he says, adopting that California valley-girl accent he slips into so easily, “what, did they take away your eyeliner? Let’s get you put together. Ash, pass me her bag.”

The family watches as Kyle expertly applies the eyeliner and mascara to his sister’s eyes, and then, when Ali says she doesn’t mind them eating around her, breaks into the sandwiches that Deb had picked up.

She falls asleep listening to them argue fondly with each other, something about who’s cooler–Kyle or Ashlyn–but not before catching Ash’s eye and seeing the love there, seeing her fiance mouth I love you from the spot she’s claimed at the foot of the bed.

If she can’t have Ash next to her in the bed, holding her, this is the next best thing, being surrounded by all the people she loves the most.

* * *

He’s angry, Ash knows. It’s been obvious since she picked him up from the airport. He’s angry and mad and hurt, but he’s hiding it well, for the most part, and she loves him for that. Loves him for not putting his own emotional needs on Ali right now, however valid and justified it might be.

But when they leave the hospital, when visiting hours are over and the nurses kick them out of Ali’s room, she can see him bristling under the thin leather coat he wears. Can see that same furrow between his eyes, the one Ali always gets when she’s concentrating or annoyed.

They’re so alike, the Krieger siblings, and there are times when Ashlyn envies their closeness, their bond. She and Chris are tight, true, but it’s different, her relationship with her older brother. It’s less, somehow. And not in a way that makes him less significant to her, it’s just that she knows she can survive without him, and the same for him.

But Ali and Kyle, sometimes she has to remind herself that they’re not actually twins, not actually two halves of one whole. That they’re not two sides of a single coin, no matter how alike and how connected they might seem.

They were each other’s first friends and first rivals. Their strongest ally and their fiercest competitor. And when life was hard–when their parents divorced, when Kyle struggled with addiction, when Ali was injured and uncertain that her dreams would ever come true–they clung to each other, they supported each other.

They were everything to each other, Ashlyn knows. And if something were to happen to Kyle, if something tragic happened, or he fell victim to his old demons, she knows Ali would never recover, would never be the same.

The same, she’s certain, holds true for Kyle.

* * *

The drive home from the hospital is silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts about the day, about Ali and what the future might hold.

It’s dark out when they pull into the driveway, the autumn night cool. But the sky is clear and the stars are out, and Ash takes a small comfort in that.

Neither of them are hungry, and so instead of making dinner Ashlyn excuses herself to take a shower, telling Kyle to make himself at home. She knows he will, he’s been their guest many a time before.

In the solitude of the shower, hot water beating against her skin, her tired muscles, she lets herself go. She lets herself cry for a moment, two, before she stands up and reaches for Ali’s shampoo.

“She’s going to be okay, she’s going to be okay,” the blonde whispers to herself, the steady prayer that’s become her silent mantra of late. And slowly, she feels her heart begin to settle, begin to echo the beat of the words.

Before, before all this began, they’d be showering together. They’d have spent the day training, no athlete ever really has an off-season, and maybe gone out for dinner. Maybe a movie, or a concert. Something where she could nuzzle her nose into Alex’s shoulder, wrap an arm around the woman she loves and hold her close.

And when they got home?

This. Together. Standing under the steady pulse of the hot, hot water, letting steam fill the room and cloud the air between them. Naked, open. Faith and trust and love in the simple act of washing the day off of each other’s skin.

But tonight, tonight she’s showering alone. And Ali’s asleep in a hospital bed across the city.

And nothing in the world is as it should be.

And she has no idea how to make it right.

The thought brings tears to her eyes again, but Ashlyn ignores them, lets the hot water from the shower burn them away.

* * *

When she comes down stairs and into the kitchen, she finds Kyle sitting at their kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey before him.

She can’t tell if he’s taken a drink yet, can’t remember the last time she or Ali dug the bottle out of the back of their liquor cabinet or how full it was when they put it back.

Really, it doesn’t matter.

It’s enough that Kyle went looking. It’s enough that he pulled it out and is sitting, staring at it, like it’s the answer to everything he’s ever wanted.

And it hurts. She hurts. And she’s angry, so angry.

It’s been building for weeks, the anger and the fear and the pain. She’s been pushing it down, biting it back. Because it won’t do anything to get angry, to be afraid. It won’t help Alex, it won’t cure her or let Ash take her place instead.

“What are you doing, Kyle,” she asks, and her voice is cold and hard, “what do you think you’re doing?”

He turns to look at her, and his face is wet with tears. But she can’t care right now, she can’t see his pain or spare him any gentleness. Ali is alone in the hospital, her drugged sleep keeping the pain away, and in their kitchen her brother is hanging on to his sobriety by the skin of his teeth.

“Ash, I just–”

But she can’t listen to his excuses, his reasons. Not tonight. Not like this.

“You need a drink, Kyle?” she asks, reaching for some glasses on the counter. Her voice is dangerous and dark, and her veins are full of ice. “Why don’t we both have a drink; here, let me pour.”

She sits across from him and pours, passing him a tumblr full of the amber liquid, not caring when it sloshes a little on the table.

When he doesn’t drink, when he just stares at her in response, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, she pushes the glass closer.

“Come on, Kyle,” she taunts, “aren’t we going to do this? Take a drink together? Let it burn in our throats and our blood. Forget all the bad things, forget all the things that we can’t deal with right now? Doesn’t that sound like a good idea?”

“Ash,” he starts again, but she won’t let him continue.

“We’ll start with one,” Ashlyn says, lifting her own glass, “and then, we can keep going. Right, Kyle? We’ll just drink and drink and drink. And then we won’t have to watch, right? We won’t have to watch while Ali gets sicker, and we won’t have to watch while she dies, and instead of going to her funeral and instead of saying goodbye we can just go to a bar and drink until we forget why we were ever sad. And won’t Ali be proud of us, hey, Kyle? Won’t she just love us then.”

She throws back the whiskey with only a small gasp as it hits the back of her throat, and then rises, setting the glass back down on the table with a loud _thunk._

When she leaves the room, when she heads back upstairs to lay down next to the empty side of the bed and try–try–to sleep, the sound of Kyle weeping follows her, the only sound in the silent home.

* * *

In the morning, the glass is still there, still full, and the bottle beside stands just as she left it.

And inside Ashlyn weeps for joy.

She’d spent the night tossing and turning, wondering if she’d done the right thing, if she’d made the right choice. If anger and harsh words had been the best way to confront Kyle.

It’s not what Alex would have done, not what Alex would have said to him, she knows, but maybe it was enough. Maybe it was enough for the moment.

“I’m sorry,” she hears from behind her, and when she turns he’s standing there, eyes sheepish and ashamed.

“No, no,” Ash answers breathlessly, and hugs him tightly, desperately, “I’m sorry. I was cruel and I was angry. I’m so sorry, Kyle.” And when he hugs her back, when he holds her tight to his strong chest, the way he holds his sister when she’s upset, she lets herself sag against him, lets him hold her up.

“I was angry that she didn’t tell me until Sunday, and then when I saw her in the hospital, I was so afraid,” he tells her as they sway back and forth, taking strength from each other. “And I know why she didn’t tell me–she was afraid that I’d do exactly this, that I’d reach for a bottle and lose everything I’ve worked so hard for these past years.”

Ashlyn nods, there’s no use denying it, and takes a step back.

“But you didn’t, Kyle, and that’s important. I’m so proud of you. And Ali would be too–but,” she says before he can ask, “I won’t tell her. That’s up to you.”

He nods gratefully.

“I will, I’ll tell her. And I’ll tell her that you helped bring me back.”

Kyle reaches out to rest his hands on her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes.

“Once when she needed me, when she almost lost everything, I wasn’t there for her. I won’t let that happen again,” he tells her, and the words are sincere, “I will be here for whatever she needs, and whatever you need. And if I need help–”

“You’ll ask,” Ash finishes for him, “you’ll ask me or your dad or your mom. You’ll ask a sponsor or a therapist. But you’ll ask. And we’ll get you through it.”

He nods.

“We’ll get through this, Ash, we all will.”

She hopes he’s right.

* * *

“Do you remember the first time we met, Kyle,” Ashlyn asks, and knows that he does.

How could he not.

He nods, his eyes, so like Ali’s, watching her carefully.

“You were nervous,” he recalls. “You offered me a beer and then your face when white when you realized what you’d done.”

He smiles at the memory, at Ashlyn’s embarrassment and rushed apologies.

Her eyes are far away, and he knows she’s thinking of everything that happened on that trip, his surprise visit to check in on his little sister after her knee injury.

“Not my finest moment,” she says after a pause, and he puts down the empty cereal bowl to reach across the empty couch cushion between them and take her hand in his.

“No,” Kyle agrees, “but you’ve made up for it a couple of times over by now.”

They sit for a while, quiet, each wrapped up in their own worries and fears.

“Do you know how I knew?” Kyle asks, breaking the silence.

And she knows immediately what he’s referring to. How near the end of his visit he’d pulled her into the kitchen at his dad’s place while Ali napped on the couch. How he’d asked her, ever so casually, how long she’d been in love with his sister, and waited patiently for her to stop sputtering and respond.

For her to stop denying it, even to herself, and say the words aloud.

And she had.

It felt so good, she remembers, to finally give voice to the thing that had been growing inside of her, the terrible thing she’d been so afraid to acknowledge, to admit.

And she’s wondered many a time over the years, just what it was that had given her away, what it was that Kyle could see so clearly, even when Ali couldn’t.

“No,” she says, and shakes her head, “what was it?”

He shifts, pulling his legs up onto the couch to tuck them under his body, and looks at her.

“I watched the two of you interact for three days,” he begins in his soft, gentle voice, “I watched as you anticipated her every need. I watched as you helped her to the bathroom, your hand on her back to keep her steady. I watched as you somehow knew when she was getting bored or tired, and had the perfect distraction, or somehow convinced her that a nap was her idea in the first place. I saw how much you cared for her. And how much you were hurting for her. I know that if you could, you would have swapped places with her in a second, if the universe would give you the opportunity.”

Ash nods.

“But really, it was in the way you looked at her,” he continues, “the way you said her name, how you talked about her. It was in everything you did and said, Ash. Your whole heart was pouring out. It was kind of beautiful to watch.”

She can’t help it, she rolls her eyes, almost certain he’s making fun of her.

“No,” Kyle says, holding a hand up, “listen, I’m serious. It was–like–it was one of the most precious things, and it made me happy because she’s my sister, and even though I knew she was hurting, I knew she’d be okay. She had you. You loved her and you’d take care of her.”

“And, Ash,” he says, louder now, his voice strong and full of emotion, “I still know that. She’ll be okay–she’s got you.”

Ashlyn isn’t sure what to say, what words could possibly convey what she’s feeling right now. How Kyle’s filled some of the emptiness in her chest, the worry that she’s not enough, that she won’t be able to give Alex what she needs.

So instead of saying anything, she just gives him a sisterly poke in the thigh, and a smile soft smile.

“You know,” Kyle adds in a measured tone, “what I didn’t tell you that weekend was that she felt the same way, she loved you already too.”

But Ashlyn can’t believe that. It had taken months after that conversation for anything to actually happen with Alex.

“No,” she says, “you’re crazy.”

But he insists.

“You know Ali,” Kyle tells her, “I love her more than anyone but she’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. She can never admit when she needs something, or when she’s in pain. And then you come along, and she lets you help her. She lets you take care of her, and she trusts you. She has since the very beginning. She loved you, all the way back then. Even if she didn’t quite know it yet.”

“Besides,” he says and grins at Ash, all mischief, “she was always checking out your ass as she walked away. That was probably the biggest clue of them all.”

And he’s done it then, he’s made her laugh.

Maybe they’re all going to be okay after all.


	8. Chapter 8

_She’s nervous, so nervous.  
_

_It’s just a concert, just a slice of pizza after. Nothing they haven’t done a thousand times before._

_But tonight is different. Tonight is something entirely new._

_Because yesterday she’d kissed the woman who’s become so much more to her than words could describe. Who is more than just a friend, more than a best friend, more than a teammate or partner or anything anyone else could think to describe them as._

_Somehow, Ashlyn has become everything to her. Her first call, her last goodnight. The one she looks to for comfort when she’s sad or angry or sick, the one she wants to celebrate with when she’s happy or excited._

_She’s known it for a long time, what she feels for Ash. She’s felt the zing of electricity on her skin when they touch, when the tall, blonde brushes up against her in the kitchen or on the bus. She’s felt her stomach twist with pleasure watching Ash run into the surf when they’re at the beach, all long legs and strong arms, board shorts and bikini tops and perfect, perfect abs._

_Ali wants her, wants her badly. She wants the heat of Ashlyn’s body against her own, the play of skin against skin, strength on strength. She wants to taste that skin, lick the beads of sweat she knows will gather and pool in the hollow of Ashlyn’s collarbone, along the sharp lines of her abs._

_She wants to know what it would be like, to be loved by Ash, to take and give and take again. The fire and heat she knows live there, simmering beneath the marked surface, under Ashlyn’s skin._

_But she wants the softness and the tenderness too. She wants to wake up in Ashlyn’s arms, wants to roll over and kiss the blonde sweetly until she, too, is awake and gently wanting more. She wants the steady hand at her back and the teasing kisses against her brow._

_She wants more, the friend she has now and the lover, the partner, she knows Ashlyn would be._

_She wants Ash and she wants everything._

_And last night, the wanting, the nights of lying in bed and wishing, hoping, waiting, built and boiled inside of her. Until there was nothing she could do but turn to the blonde sitting next to her on the couch–so close, always so close–and slowly, softly, kiss those beautiful lips._

_“I’m sorry,” she’d said when she pulled back, certain that she’d ruined the best thing she’d ever had._

_But Ash had only looked at her, quietly, considering. Like she was seeing something entirely new in a picture she’d looked at a thousand million times before. Like everything she thought she’d known about the world had been turned upside down and she was just trying to figure out how to navigate something new and wild and unknown._

_“Ali,” she’d said, a whisper almost lost among the dialogue coming from the television._

_And Ali’d panicked._

_“I should go,” she’d said, standing quickly and gathering her things to head back to her own place._

_“Ali,” Ashlyn had repeated, but Ali couldn’t stay, couldn’t stick around and hear the gentle rejection, the ‘not that way’ she imagined hearing in Ashlyn’s soft, gentle voice._

_“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she’d said, “the concert–pick me up at seven?”_

_And then she’d ran._

_And now she’s waiting, pacing back and forth in the short hallway of her apartment. Her bedroom to the living room, the living room to the entrance, turn and repeat._

_Until, with a soft knock at the door, Ashlyn announces her presence._

_“Hey,” the blonde says, letting herself in, and Ali allows herself a shy “Hello” to break the ice, the awkward space her actions put between them._

_“Listen,” Ashlyn starts, “about last night,” but Ali interrupts her, holding up a hand and grabbing her jacket._

_“We can forget about it,” she answers, “should we go?”_

_But Ash doesn’t move from where she stands between the brunette and the door, just stands there and looks at Ali, her gaze so forceful and so intense that Ali can almost feel the heat of it within her._

_And then Ashlyn moves._

_One step–two–three._

_She moves with purpose, with deliberate need, and doesn’t stop._

_Until she’s flush with Ali’s body, pressed against the coral-colored kitchen wall._

_Until her lips are on the brunette’s, hard and fierce and wanting._

_Until Ali’s hands are twisting in blonde hair as she gasps at the way Ashlyn’s tongue licks along her neck._

_Until jeans and leggings lay abandoned on the wood floor of the hall, and the concert’s long been forgotten._

_Until she and Ali can move no longer, and sleep, curled around each other, beneath the pale midnight light of the moon._

* * *

_[October 2015, cont’d]_

The news from the doctor is good. All cancerous tissue was removed with Ali’s ovaries and, the lab had identified the tumors as having a low potential for malignancy.

Which, Dr. Tzotz explained to them, meant that Ali’s chances of making a full recovery were roughly between 70 and 99 percent. It didn’t mean the fight was over yet, she said, just that the sides were more evenly matched.

“But,” and this is the part that Ashlyn latched on to as the doctor gave them some last minute instructions about preparing for chemo, “I have every faith that you’ll be in that upper 90th percentile, Alexandra.”

It’s the hope that Ash clings to, that they both cling to, as Ali’s discharged and wheeled out to where Kyle has the car waiting.

When they pull into the driveway, Kyle hops out and goes to help Ali out of the backseat while Ash gathers the bag of cards and gifts the other woman’s accumulated during her short stay at the hospital. Kyle lifts his sister into his arms easily, and sends Ashlyn a knowing glance when the brunette doesn’t even argue.

“Almost time for another pill, babes?” he asks, carefully carrying her through the doorway and down the hallway to the stairs, as his little sister scrunches up her face.

“I’ve got it,” Ash says, close behind, Ali’s favorite pillow under one arm and the duffle bag with her robe and toiletries slung over the other shoulder.

In the bedroom, Kyle gently lays the brunette down, and helps her to get in a comfortable position, one that won’t aggravate the still-healing incisions on her abdomen.

“Hey,” he whispers in his sister’s ear, “I’m glad you’re home,” and though the smile she gives him isn’t quite as wide as usual, it’s no less bright or loving.

“Me too, Kyle, me too.”

“Okay,” Ash says, coming into the room from the bathroom, a glass of water and two small white pills in her hand, “these should help with the pain.” She kneels next to Ali on the bed and gently cups the back of the brunette’s head as Ali swallows the pills down.

“I’m going to head out with that list you gave me,” Kyle says quietly from the doorway, and Ash nods her head, sending him a grateful look as Ali hands her the empty glass.

“Where’s Kyle going,” Ali mumbles as the blonde lays down next to her, careful not to jostle the bed too much. She grimaces as she twists her body, just the slightest, to rest her head on Ashlyn’s shoulder, just enough that she can hear her partner’s strong, steady heartbeat.

Ash carefully slips her arm under Ali’s torso, and tilts her head down to leave a kiss on the crown of the shorter woman’s head.

“Just to the store for some things we need,” Ash tells her. “I looked up some of those websites Dr. Tzotz recommended, cancer diets, nutrition for chemo patients, that kind of thing. Kyle said he wouldn’t mind.”

Maybe it’s her exhaustion, or the relief that the tumors are gone. Or maybe it’s just acceptance, finally, that this is all happening, but unlike the past few weeks, Ali doesn’t flinch at the “C-word” this time.

And though the blonde notices, she lets the moment fall unacknowledged.

“Not all of us,” she continues, “had the benefit of morphine to help us sleep this past week.”

Ali’s chuckle is soft, barely there, and the painkillers must be kicking in because her face is free of pain.

“Yeah,” she teases sleepily, “because being woken up every hour or so as a nurse comes in to check your temperature is totally worth the drugs.” The words are slow and slurred, and Ash feels the head on her shoulder get heavier and heavier as Ali slips ever closer to sleep.

“I love you, Alex,” the blonde whispers into Ali’s dark hair, lying there in their bed as the afternoon sun cast light shadows on the wall, and listens to the even, measured breaths of the woman sleeping at her side.

* * *

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ali huffs and looks over at her brother with pleading eyes.

But Kyle just shakes his head and raises his arms as if to say ‘what do you expect me to do.’ He knows better than to try and interject on Ali’s behalf right now, their mother and Ashlyn will just ignore him anyway.

Ali’s been home for two days, and already she’s going stir-crazy, mostly thanks to her mother and her girlfriend. They’re just trying to help, she knows, and they have the best of intentions. 

But there’s a line.

And that line is coffee.

“Mom,” she tries again, near to begging, “I need my morning coffee. I feel like I’m dying without it.”

She catches her mistake a second too late, and watches as everyone in the room stiffens, just for a moment, at the word.

But they all recover quickly, and Ash comes over to the table with a big mauve mug, Ali’s favorite.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she says as she puts it down in front of the other woman, “here. Green tea. Not only does it naturally contain caffeine, but it’s full of a whole bunch of things that people think help to fight cancer.”

“Does it fight taste too,” Ali sputters after taking a sip, “because it tastes like turf, Ash.”

The blonde just rolls her eyes. “It does not,” she answers, taking a large sip herself, and Kyle laughs loudly at the look on her face as she struggles to swallow it down, “it tastes natural. Healthy.”

Resigned to the other woman’s well-meaning help, Ali sighs and shudders through another sip.

“See, not that bad,” her mother says and pats her gently on the back.

“So this is going to be a thing now,” she asks a few minutes later, watching as Kyle slices up some fruit for their breakfast, “changing the diet? No coffee? Taking weird supplements?” She looked down at the place in front of her, where Ash had arranged her morning pills–painkillers, anti-inflammatories, zinc, vitamin D, iron–with skepticism.

“I’ve been reading this book,” her mother says, “all about what to eat to help your body fight the cancer and get you the nutrients you need to help you get through the chemo–”

“–And I was talking to Dawn and the trainers,” Ashlyn cuts in, “they had some ideas too.”

“You’re going to love this, Al,” Kyle adds, “it’s all very paleo. No artificial ingredients or preservatives, low carbs and lots of fiber. Organic fruits and vegetables, lean meats. Lots of tea. A couple of months and you’ll as good as me me.”

He grins at her, and it’s definitely worth the twinge in her abs when she kicks him from across the table.

* * *

It’s just a precaution, the doctor tells her. There’s no evidence that the cancer has spread beyond her ovaries, no sign of malignant cells anywhere else. But a cycle of chemo should help prevent any from coming back, Dr. Tzotz suggests.

And so, reluctantly, Ali pulls out her diary to block out the weeks the doctor has marked off.

It’s only then that she notices the date, only then that she realizes what she’s forgotten.

Ashlyn’s birthday had come and gone, almost a week ago now.

Somehow the days had just slipped past her, one blending into the other in a haze of fear and pain and drug-induced sleep. 

She feels terrible about it, like she’s let Ashlyn down. Let down the woman who has been such a rock the past weeks and months, the woman who has let her cry on her shoulder, who’s told her the lamest jokes she knows just to see a smile on her face, who’s whispered love into her ears every night as they fell asleep and every morning as they woke. 

“At least,” she tells the doctor, “thinking of a way to make it up to her will keep me busy until chemo starts.”

The doctor nods in agreement.


	9. Chapter 9

_If she didn’t understand, if she hadn’t experienced the same thing once upon a time, too many years ago to bother counting, maybe she’d be more upset.  
_

_But she had. Ash’d done the self-reflection, the fear and the loathing, the coming to terms. She’d done it all, and thankfully long before anyone was truly paying attention to what she did and who she did it with._

_Ali, though, Ali hadn’t. Ali’d never averted her eyes in the locker room, afraid someone would catch an innocent glance and expose her most secret of secrets. Never listened to the people she grew up with, went to school with, taken the field with throw around slurs like fag and gay, homo and lesbo like they were the absolute worst things a person could be, and felt the darkness, the wrongness inside of her cringe and ache._

_Ali’d never experienced that first freeing moment, the realization that she didn’t have to be the girl everybody thought she was, the girl she’d pretended to be for so long. Or the things that followed, the ability to define this new, true self. The exploration. The heartache and the heartbreak and always the joy of knowing that she was finally most herself._

_And so Ash can be patient. She can look Ali in the eyes in the morning after and see the panic there, and not feel her heart fall to pieces._

_She can be strong because Ali needs her to be strong, and because she knows, without a doubt, that the fear, the panic, the slightest hint of regret are all just a part of the mask the brunette thinks she’s supposed to put on. Sleeping with your best friend–must have been a mistake, right? Isn’t that what all the sitcoms make it out to be, a joke to laugh about years later?_

_But Ash knows better. She knows that what happened last night wasn’t some lust-driven mistake, something to forget and move beyond._

_It was love. It was soft and sweet, gentle caresses and tender kisses, and so, so much love._

_And she knows Ali feels it too, knows it in her bones._

_Because in the cold, early light of morning, when brunette rolled into her, stretching out her whole body, and opened her eyes …_

_Before she registered the time or the place or questions of what happens next …_

_The very first thing Ali did, seeing Ashlyn there in her bed and feeling the warm naked press of skin to skin, was smile. Small and shy, uncertain about this whole new future they’d stepped into, but happy._

_And in love._

_So Ashlyn?_

_Ashlyn can wait. She can be patient through Ali’s panic, the way those sweet brunette eyes widened in fear in the middle of their morning kiss, how Ali’s voice shook and trembled as she scampered back, as she began to throw on the clothes that dotted the floor of her bedroom._

_Ash can wait as long as need be because she knows, at the end of this particular journey?_

_Is her Alex._

_And a lifetime of love._

* * *

_[October 2015, cont’d]_

Pinoe calls her. Early, early in the morning. A time she knows, from years of friendship and shared hotel rooms, when Ashlyn will be up and Ali still asleep.

“So,” Megan starts, “you should know that your girl called me yesterday to enlist help in planning a surprise party.”

“Yeah?” Ashlyn says as she pages through one of Ali’s forgotten bridal magazines, “What for?”

There’s an unusual sadness in Megan’s voice when she answers, so strange to hear in the perpetually positive woman.

“She, uh, I guess she realized that she forgot your birthday and feels pretty bad about it.”

Ash is quiet for a moment. To be honest, she, too, had forgotten her birthday. It wasn’t until she checked her phone in the afternoon that she saw all the texts and missed calls from her family and friends. In the worry over Ali, the appointments and the surgery and the rehabilitation, the days had kind of slid, one into the other, and the fact that she was about to turn thirty had pretty much passed her by.

“She shouldn’t,” Ash tells her friend, pausing on one of the pages Ali has marked–a beautiful white dress, flowy and light, sleek and sophisticated. She can imagine it on the woman she loves, imagine walking hand-in-hand with Ali as everyone they love celebrates their commitment to each other. It’s perfect.

“You try telling her that,” Megan replies, “because I spent an hour on the phone with her yesterday and the more I tried to convince her that you didn’t care and weren’t mad at her, the worse she felt, I think.”

Ashlyn rolls her eyes. “That’s because you are the absolute worst at pep talks, Pinoe,” she says with a sigh, “even Tobs and Abby are better.”

Megan’s response is an indignant “Hey,” before she thinks it over and concedes that Ash is right. “But,” she argues, “I tried!”

A paper flutters out of the magazine as Ash laughs–it’s a list, written in Ali’s neat, flowing hand, of ideas for the wedding. The wedding that’s been put on indefinite hold now.

“Anyway,” Megan continues, oblivious to the pause on Ashlyn’s side of the conversation, “I wanted to give you a heads up. Find out if you want me to talk her out of it, if it’s a bad idea, you know … Ash?”

“No,” Ashlyn answers, attention still focused on that little piece of paper, “I mean, yes, I’m glad you let me know, Megan. I really appreciate it.”

“So should I distract her, tell her I don’t think it’s a good idea?” the other woman asks.

In her living room in Virginia, Ash smiles, an idea forming in her head.

“No,” she tells Megan, “not at all. I think it’s a great idea. It’ll keep her mind off chemo. But, I have an idea–it won’t be easy, and we’ll need a lot of help, but I think we can pull it off before Alex starts treatment.”

She can almost see her teammate’s grin through the phone, all mischievous delight.

“Oh,” Megan says, “are we plotting? I love to plot.”

And Ash smiles in return, “Don’t I know it.”

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” Whit says slowly, “Ali’s planning a surprise thirtieth birthday party for you …”

Ashlyn nods.

“… which is actually a surprise wedding for her …”

“For both of us, if you think about it,” the goalkeeper cuts in.

“… and Pinoe is coordinating the whole thing?”

“She’s expediting,” Ash offers, “you know, letting Ali plan the whole thing with help from Deb and Kyle and HAO and a few others. It’s just that she doesn’t quite realize she’s planning a wedding instead of a birthday party.”

Whitney looks impressed and gives her good friend a happy grin. “I’m not sure whether to be impressed or terrified,” she confesses. “If you and Pinoe manage to pull this off, you’ll be taking team pranks to a whole new level.”

“If we manage to pull this off without Alex finding out, it’ll be a miracle,” Ash counters, “but it’ll be worth it.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the two old friends. Each thinking about what the future might hold.

“And you’re okay with this, marrying her in a surprise ceremony? Now, right before she starts treatment? And she’ll be okay with it?” Whitney looks almost sorry as she asks, and Ash hears the concern behind the words.

Ashlyn’s voice is strong, unwavering, as she answers.

“I’ve waited my whole life for her, Whit,” she starts, “and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. This all, the cancer, it hasn’t changed how I feel. If anything, it’s made me all the more certain.”

Whitney looks at her softly, and nods.

But Ashlyn isn’t finished.

“Ali’s stopped planning, though,” she continues, “like she thinks that because she’s sick she can’t think about the future, about her life. And as much as I try to how her otherwise, I know she’s worried that this will change how I feel. So I want to show her that it doesn’t, that I still cannot wait to marry her, to be her wife. I want to give her a beautiful day, a beautiful memory to take with her when she goes in for treatment, and when she feels terrible.”

Whit grabs for her hand, and watches as the tears fall down Ash’s face.

“I want to stand up in front of everyone who matters and promise that I will love her, every day, for the rest of our lives,” Ashlyn finishes, and leans into her best friend’s shoulder.

“I know, honey, I know,” Whit says, and pats gently at her friend’s back.

* * *

“Megan’s picking up the cake and dropping it off at the restaurant, and then she and HAO are going to supervise the decorating,” Ali says aloud, looking at her checklist while Sydney and Abby finish the coffee they’d ordered from room service.

“So what does Ash think you’re up to today,” asks Abby, moving from where she had been leaning against the kitchen counter to sit with the brunette at the breakfast bar, stealing a look at the long list of tasks still left to complete.

Ali crosses off something else before looking up to answer. “She thinks HAO came down for a girls’ weekend before everything gets going,” she tells the older woman. “We told her we were going shopping and she pretended to have a headache,” Ali continues with a laugh.

“That’s probably for the best,” Abby smiles knowingly, “I mean, we’ve all heard Ash’s stories.”

Ali’s laughter fills the small room, and for a moment, the friends stop to watch her, to burn the sound into their memories.

* * *

“I’m here, I’m here,” Megan cries out as she rushes into the room, arms overflowing with decorations. A man and woman follow behind slowly, carefully pushing a cart with a large box on it, and make their way to the kitchen.

Soon the room is a hive of activity as friends and teammates and family members work together to ready the large restaurant that’s been rented for the occasion, hanging lights and arranging flowers, stringing ribbons of cream and gold.

Ash stands amid them all, mentally checking off all the things she knows have already been completed, reviewing those tasks left to be done. And she takes a second to think about the love in this room, the way everyone has come together to create this moment for Ali, for her.

But mostly, mostly she thinks of the woman she loves.

It’s going to be a good night, she can feel it.

* * *

“Seriously, Alex, you’re not going to tell me where we are?” Ashlyn asks as Ali pays the taxi driver.

“Nope,” she hears Ali say, and knows, even blindfolded, that the other woman is smiling, “then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

They walk a little ways, Ali leading them both, until they stop, and the blonde feels Ali’s hands on her face, pulling her head down for a kiss before lifting the blindfold.

They stand before one of their favorite restaurants, one Ash swears has the best Italian food in the entire DMV area.

“What’s this for,” the blonde asks as Ali pulls her in for another kiss.

“Nothing,” Ali whispers, “I just love you.”

* * *

When Ashlyn opens the door, it’s Ali who gasps, who can’t believe what she sees.

It looks nothing like the party she’d planned with Pinoe and HAO and the other girls.

It looks so much better.

Everywhere hints of gold catch and throw the light, and everywhere she looks, she sees roses–cream and peach and blush. The tables are covered in long, cream tablecloths, and a golden bow adorns the back of every chair. And there, near the large window that overlooks the summer patio, someone’s set up a white trellis, surrounded on all sides by rose petals and candles flickering gently in their tall glass vases.

Everyone who has ever meant something to her, to her and to Ashlyn, is there before them, watching with wide, happy smiles, as they stand together in the entryway.

“Will you marry me, Alex” Ash whispers into her ear and suddenly everything clicks, the whole scene falls into place.

For a moment, Ali can’t speak. Her heart overflows with joy and love. But then she smiles, and stretches up on her toes to kiss the woman she loves more than anything else.

And behind them, everyone begins to clap, to cheer.

* * *

“I cannot believe you,” Ali says after they’re married, as they sit at the head table, just in front of the trellis where Abby pronounced them wife and wife, and eat. “You knew the whole time?”

Ash laughs as she takes a sip of champagne, and lets her eyes trace down the lovely figure her wife makes in her beautiful wedding dress. “Pinoe called me the morning after you talked to her,” she confesses, “and the idea came to me then. I’m sorry I spoiled your surprise party.”

But Ali knows she teases, her tone may be mirthful but her eyes sparkle with happiness.

“I’m sorry I forgot your birthday,” she offers in return, and Ashlyn’s eyes go soft and gentle.

“What do you mean,” the blonde says, her voice tender and loving, “you married me. Best damn birthday present I’ve ever gotten.”

Ali laughs loudly, her wife’s forgiveness a salve to her heart. “I know, right,” she teases, “I have no idea how I’m going to follow it up next year.”

Ashlyn reaches for her hand–her left one–and brings it up to her lips, kissing her wife’s ring-finger, the new ring that she placed there herself, less than an hour ago.

“Oh,” she whispers with a grin, “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

* * *

They spend the night celebrating with all their family and friends. Ashlyn and Ali dance together as everyone watches, and then with each of their parents. Kelley and Lauren take over the music sometime later and a competition breaks out on the dance floor, each girl trying to outdo her teammates, her friends. Kyle and Crystal are eventually declared winners, and he steals a few bows to make them impromptu crowns.

And at the end of the night, when Ali starts to drift off against her wife’s shoulder, and the older members of the party all begin to disperse, Ashlyn thanks them all for coming, for sharing in this amazing day, and invites them to continue celebrating even in their absence.

And then she helps Ali into her jacket, and leads her out into the cold night, to where their ride home waits for them.

When she sees it–King Arthur all dressed up for the occasion, gold ribbon trailing from the “Just Married” sign someone’s attached over the spare tire on the back–the brunette laughs, and the sound echoes into the empty street.

“What,” Ash teases with a sly grin, “gotta get my wife home in style.”

It’s the perfect end to the perfect day, and though they both know that the next few weeks and months will not be easy, tonight, tonight has given them the strength to face it. To meet the fight head-on.

 _Try and stop us now_ , Ali thinks to herself, and kisses her smiling wife.


	10. Chapter 10

_“I love you,” she says when Ashlyn opens the door, “I’m sorry.”_

_And it’s not perfect, but it’s a start._

_A start at forgiveness, and the hope of a second chance._

_“I know,” Ash tells her in return, and Ali knows that though they’re not fixed, though they’re not quite whole yet, they’re no longer broken._

_It takes days. And weeks. And months._

_It takes patience and kindness, persistence and faith._

_It takes long walks along the riverbank and through the old forest, quiet evenings in each other’s company, long conversations over food and before fires._

_But they mend, and they build._

_And together, they grow._

_When Ashlyn knocks on her door, the first birds of spring darting back and forth across the small garden, a small bunch of flowers in hand and her lips curved in a shy smile, Ali understands._

_“I’ve loved you for a long time,” Ash tells her in a quiet voice, “I could love you forever.”_

_“I know,” she says._

* * *

_[November 2015]_

Chemo begins after All Souls’ Day, and Ali tries to not to take it as an omen.

Ashlyn received permission to skip the first week of their last camp of the year in order to go with her, and Ali tries not to read too much into that either. After all, the doctor told them that there was no reason not to be positive, not to believe that as soon as she’d recovered from the chemo she could begin living her life again. Still, though, Ash worries. Some mornings Ali wakes to find Ashlyn, who’s rarely patient enough to wait around in bed when she could be up doing things, sitting next to her, just watching her sleep. And there are moments spread through their days when the blonde will wrap her up in a hug from behind, or reach for her hand, or just sit, right up next to her, as if she needs the physical reminder of Ali’s body to help her believe everything will be okay.

And there’s a part of the brunette that understands.

If something threatened to take Ashlyn away from her?

Ali can’t even begin to imagine how she would survive it. All she knows is that life without Ash would only ever be that, surviving. Ash has always been the one thing in her life that’s made her feel truly, wholly, alive.

Still, Ali tries to tell her to go, to go to camp and continue proving that she’s one of the best goalkeepers in the nation, that she has it in her to be one of the best in the world.

 _You can’t_ , she tries to tell the blonde, _you can’t sacrifice your career for this_.

But her wife–every time she says the word, Ali finds herself looking down at her hand, the two rings there, proof that it had happened, that she’d married the love of her life–her wife is stubborn, and despite the arguments they’ve had about it, the brunette is grateful that Ash chose to stay, chose her.

Because walking into the hospital early one Monday morning doesn’t seem as terrible with her wife at her side.

* * *

Everyone–doctors, nurses, friends and family members who’d gone through it before–warns them about how long and boring the actual chemotherapy sessions were.

So they come prepared. Ash packs a bag full of things to occupy them through the long hours of sitting and watching chemicals being pumped into Ali’s veins. She goes out the day before and buys every magazine she thinks that the brunette would be interested in, a couple of new books she knows are on Ali’s radar. She packs a deck of cards, charges up both of their iPads and loads them with stupid games and a mix of their favorite movies. One of the nurses had suggested a small pillow and a blanket, in case Ali wanted to nap, and another’d told her that sometimes patients like to journal, so a blank diary and a couple of pens are added to the bag as well.

And then, while Ali sleeps fitfully in the early hours before they’re due to arrive at the hospital, the blonde sits in bed next to her wife, and puts together a whole playlist of the songs she thinks might be a comfort.

Songs they’ve listened to together on the way to games, songs to pump Ali up. Tracks they’ve danced to in the privacy of their hotel balcony in Hawaii, with the sand and water and the sunset in the background to keep them company. Songs she’s heard Ali humming around the house, ones they’ve queued up to sing along to at the top of their lungs on long drives to visit their friends and family.

She only debates a few minutes over the title, knowing that the one she chooses–“You’re a Keeper, Alex”–will probably earn her an eyeroll from her wife, but she hopes that underneath the feigned annoyance, there’ll be a smile as well.

* * *

The nausea hits on Day Four.

The doctor had advised trying to keep as normal a schedule as possible, to maintain her day-to-day life as best as she could, and Ali intends to try.

Even though she’s not participating in the current camp, and even though it’s the off-season, she’s determined not to let herself get too out of shape while she’s undergoing treatment.

“It’s good to stay active,” Dr. Tzotz had told them the morning of Ali’s first chemo session, “it can help with everything from nausea to mental state to preventing muscle atrophy.”

So they spend the afternoons after Ali’s treatment with their trainer, Ash keeping up with her usual schedule while Ali embarks on a modified version, less intense than her normal routine.

What the brunette struggles with most, what Ash predicts her wife will struggle with throughout this entire journey, is holding herself back, not pushing herself beyond the limits the doctor and the trainer have set. 

Still, though, by the fourth day, she begins to feel the path of destruction the chemicals rampaging through her body leave behind them. The fatigue, the heaviness that’s settled into her limbs, and the ache in her joints, her bones. At first, it reminds her of the week she and Ashlyn came down with the flu together, how they spent days shivering in bed together, trading off trips to the kitchen for more tea, more soup, more bottles of Gatorade. Annoying, but survivable.

But then the nausea starts.

And it feels like it will never end.

Ashlyn sits with her back to the wall in their bathroom, gently combing her fingers through Ali’s long, dark hair. Her wife’s head rests in her lap and, for the moment, she sleeps.

And though she’s lost all feeling in her legs, even though her ass is sore from the cold tile floor and she’s got a raging headache. Even though they both need a shower and a change of clothes, Ash will not move, will not wake the sleeping brunette for anything in the world.

It’s been a long couple of hours.

She’s held Ali’s hair back while her wife heaved and moaned, she’s tried to entice her with sips of Gatorade and warnings about dehydration.

She’s wiped countless tears from Ali’s eyes.

And now she’ll wait while her love sleeps, while the hand resting along Ali’s side rises and falls with every breath.

She’ll sit there as long as Ali needs.

* * *

“No,” Ali says, her voice raspy and strained, tired, “Ash, you can’t. You have to go.”

But the blonde just stares at her from where she’s folding laundry at the foot of the bed.

Already, Ashlyn has put off leaving for camp, staying an extra couple of days in D.C. to be with Ali as the chemo’s side-effects start to take their toll on her body. And though she hasn’t mentioned it to her wife, she’s been thinking about telling Jill and the rest of the team not to expect her at all. That her priority has to be her wife, first and foremost.

Always.

“I mean it, hon,” the brunette says, “you can’t stay. I know you’re worried and I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine. The girls need you.”

She reaches for a loose sock amid the pile of freshly laundered clothes and throws it down toward the blonde. Finally Ash lifts her head and looks at her, where she sits against a couple of pillows and the headboard.

Ali can see the conflict tearing her wife in two separate directions, her responsibility to care for her wife, her duty to perform for her team.

When the goalkeeper speaks, her voice is soft and sad. “I can’t leave you here, Alex,” she says, “I can’t go and play and train while you’re here sick.”

Ash drops the sports-bra she’d been folding, or trying to, and just holds her wife’s gaze.

“You’ve had days where you feel like you can barely move, Al,” the blonde points out, and crosses her arms, “and others where you’ve spent hours in the bathroom throwing up, even though you’ve barely eaten. And it’s not going to get easier, you still have two more treatments before this cycle is over!”

Every word is louder than the last, and more desperate. And when Ali looks at her wife, she sees how tightly Ashlyn is wound. How tense she is, how her whole body seems to just shake with the effort of trying to keep still, trying to keep calm.

Her soft-hearted wife. Her sensitive, beautiful, sweet love.

Ali understands now. How Ash’s heart and her head are tearing her apart, the brunette realizes.

“Hey, baby,” she says quietly, “it’s okay. You’re going to go to Mexico and finish the camp. It’s three weeks–it’ll be okay.”

“Alex,” the blonde starts to speak, coming to sit on the bed next to the other woman.

“Nope, no buts,” Ali continues, “everything will be okay. I’ll have my dad take me to the doctor and to the hospital for treatments, and I’ll keep training as best as I can. We can take your grandma up on her offer to fly here and keep me company if it’ll make you feel better, and we can Skype or Facetime every night if you want, but you’re going, Ash. You’re going and you’re going to kick ass.”

The words carry a very _and that’s final_ tone, but Ali’s voice is gentle and loving. She understands, of course, Ash’s dilemma, being caught between her loves and her duties. And the brunette knows that she would feel the same, if their positions were reversed, just as she knows that Ashlyn would tell her exactly the same thing.

“It’ll be okay, babe,” Ali says again, and brushes her knuckles against her wife’s strong, stubborn chin.

She gets a smile in return. A small one, but a smile nonetheless.

“Okay,” Ash whispers.

* * *

It’s hard.

It’s so hard.

But her wife was right, Ash realizes the moment she’s on the field with her team.

Staying would be giving in.

Staying would be letting the cancer win, letting the cancer decide how they’d live their lives. It would be giving up their dreams willingly, without a fight.

Alex had known that.

They’re fighters, they are.

So Ash laces up her boots and tapes her hands, lets the trainer help her with her gloves.

And before she steps into the box that first morning, heart warm from all the love and support her teammates have shown her, the hugs and the kind words, she pauses for just a second to drop a kiss over the stitching on the wide band of her keeper gloves, the black “Alex” on her left and “Krieger” on her right.

Ali was right, she thinks again.

Neither of them are going down without a fight.

* * *

“Honestly, Alex,” Ash asks the image of her wife on the iPad in her lap, “how are you feeling?”

She looks tired, the blonde thinks to herself. Big, dark bags sit heavy under her eyes, and there’s only the tiniest hint of a smile on the other woman’s normally cheerful, normally expressive face. And she’s lost a little more weight, Ashlyn can see in the cheeks that are just a bit hollower, the cheekbones just a bit sharper than the week before, when they kissed goodbye at the airport the week before.

Ash watches the thoughts swim across the brunette’s face as Ali tries to decide how to answer.

“Sore,” she starts, “and weak. And so, so tired. But at least the new pills the doctor prescribed for the nausea are working. I mean, there’s still some, but nothing like that first time.”

“Yeah, that’s good,” Ashlyn says encouragingly, “and how’s your appetite? Is it coming back? Grandma said she made you some baked mac and cheese the other day–I’m officially jealous. Don’t get me wrong, the food here is good, but it’s got nothing on Elise’s home cooking.”

She sticks out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout, and is rewarded with a laugh from Ali.

“Eh, you know,” her wife answers, trying to wave off Ash’s concern, “it comes and goes. And really, nothing honestly tastes very good right now.”

“Alex,” Ashlyn says softly, “you’ve got to eat, you know that. Dr. Tzotz and the nutritionist both said that making sure you get enough nutrients is really important to keeping healthy during chemo. Especially if you continue to train.”

“I’m _barely_ training, Ash,” the brunette reminds her, “seriously, I was doing more intense workouts in high school. And maybe everything tastes weird because you made your grandma promise only to use organic, free-range, vegan, gluten-free ingredients.”

Ali makes a face that tells Ashlyn exactly what she thinks about the whole anti-cancer nutritional plan Deb and her wife put together, and it makes Ash smile.

“Do you know how much I’d kill just for a bite of a big, thick, juicy cheeseburger with real cheese right now, Harris?”

The blonde laughs, and almost misses the knock at the door of the hotel room she’s sharing with Kelley.

“Hey,” her roommate says, peeking in, and Ash can see a few heads behind her–Pinoe and Tobs, Becky and Kling, she thinks–“we just wanted to know if we could say hey to Kriegs? Just a quick hi?”

She nods and they enter, each taking a turn with the iPad to say hello and tell Ali they’ve been thinking of her.

Pinoe, of course, tells Ali to get her butt back to camp as soon as she’s able because, “your wife just mopes around without you, girl, and it’s kind of pathetic.” It earns her a pillow to the back of the head, and Ash can hear her wife laughing loudly in the background as Kelley grabs for the screen while Pinoe retaliates.

But then, with an invitation to join them in Carli’s room for a movie night later, the girls are gone. 

“You should go hang out with them,” Ali says, still laughing, and Ashlyn smiles to see the happy look in her wife’s eyes, on her face. She truly is the most beautiful woman the blonde has ever known.

“I will,” she promises, “later. When we’re done. But first I want to hear all about this new hobby grandma says she’s getting you into. Knitting, Alex, really?”

Her tone is teasing, but gentle. Even so, the brunette sticks out her tongue.

“Two days in and she says I’m better than you ever were, babe. I hear you were all thumbs,” Ali announces proudly, and Ash narrows her eyes.

“I was four” she protests, “and I’ll have you know, I’m very good with my hands now.”

Her wife smirks. “Oh, I know,” the brunette replies, “but I’m still better.”

“You just keep thinking that, Krieger,” Ash tells her.

The smirk slips into a sweet smile.

“Krieger-Harris,” Ali corrects, leaving her wife speechless.

“Yeah?” the blonde asks after a moment, “that’s a pretty long name to fit on a jersey.”

But Ali gives a small nod; “I’ve got big shoulders. It’ll fit.”


	11. Chapter 11

_They’ve told no one, but somehow everyone knows.  
_

_Her teammates, Ali’s. The friends they share._

_The shopkeeper at the little market down the street from Ash’s place in Duisburg. The nosey old woman who sits at the window of her flat in Ali’s building, watching people come and go from behind her thin, gauzy curtains._

_Everyone knows, but no one says anything._

_Just watches them and smiles, sends little smirking glances their way as they head out for dinner, or come in from a late night, or stand at a doorway and struggle to to say goodbye._

_And it’s good, this knowing and this not knowing._

_This space that lets them figure things out for themselves, what they are to each other and what they are becoming to each other._

_This beautiful, sweet, moment that they’re in._

_At the beginning of everything._

_It’s good._

_It’s so, so good._

* * *

_[November 2015, cont’d]_

Round two is rougher by far.

“It’s to be expected,” Ali’s doctor tells them on the morning of Day Three after sharing the results of the latest blood work.

“The chemo builds up in your body, and on top of that, you’re weaker now than when you started round one. The good news–and there is good news–is that the chemo is doing its job. Your CA-125 numbers continue to improve and,” the doctor says, as she turns the page, “there’s no sign of any new growths in the remaining reproductive tissues. You’re on the right track toward remission, Alexandra, and if this keeps up, I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility to suggest that you might be finished with chemo by New Year’s.”

Still, though, Ashlyn has questions. 

_Are there any things they should be doing now? Anything they shouldn’t? Side effects they should be on watch for? How long is too long for nausea and vomiting? Should Alex still be working out with their trainer?_

The list is long, and Ali smiles at some of the questions, some of the things that Ash has been worrying over on her own.

But Dr. Tzotz answers each one with kindness and understanding, well accustomed to the anxious eyes of nervous spouses just trying to help as best they can.

“It’s hard,” she tells them, coming around to sit on the front of her desk, laying a gentle hand on Ali’s knee as she looks back and forth between them, “especially at this point in your treatment. Your body is run-down and you’re feeling even worse than before.”

Ali nods as her wife reaches over to take up her hand, gives it a soft squeeze.

“And I’m sorry to say it’s probably going to get worse before it gets better,” Dr. Tzotz continues, “but even as awful as you feel now, as you’ll feel over the next month and a half, you made it this far. The surgery, the first round, they’re behind you, and your prognosis, with this treatment, is excellent. The end’s in sight, Ali, and I have every faith that you’re going to win this fight, and to come out stronger in the end.”

When Ali turns to look at her wife, she finds the blonde already looking over at her, already watching her with those gentle, adoring eyes.

“It is kind of your track record, Alex,” Ash says with a small smile, “you may get knocked down once and a while, but you come back better and stronger. Always.”

She starts to hum “Fighter,” a song that’s made many of their workout playlists over the years, and even though it’s cheesy, Ali laughs.

“That’s the spirit,” the doctor says, and joins in, unable to resist the rare light moment. They’re few and far-between in her line of work, after all.

“Come on, Cristina,” Ash says, and stands, holding her hands out to help Ali up, “let’s get you to the octagon.”

* * *

It doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving.

Not without the scent of turkey and sweet potatoes and Deb’s famous pumpkin pie wafting through the house.

Not without the low hum of their family catching up, chattering back and forth, a football game on in the living room, a raised voice here, or there, as the people they love exchange friendly jibes and tease each other with old embarrassing memories.

This year there’s no mac n’cheese from Ashlyn’s grandma, or slobbery kisses from Luna. This year there’s no drive to Ali’s dad’s home in Virginia, or early-morning flights down to their families in Florida. No gin rummy tournaments that last into the night and end with a victorious shout, or midnight trips to the fridge to steal a spoonful of stuffing from the leftovers.

This year it’s just them, together.

It’s for the best.

It’s another rough one, anyway.

They spend the morning in the bathroom as Ali struggles through a terrible bout of nausea, and the afternoon on the couch, spooning while the brunette naps and Ash flips back and forth between the Lions game and a _Home Alone_ marathon.

Eventually, she drifts off as well, content that, for the moment, all is as well as can be.

When she wakes, the living room dark and cool, Ali is still asleep in her arms, a warm fleece blanket spread out over them. And there’s a sound from the kitchen, a shuffle of footsteps and the slight clink of a glass on their stone countertops, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee .

Slowly, she slides out from where her wife has rolled over, curled into her chest, and climbs, careful not to wake the other woman, over the back of the couch.

Ali’s father looks up at her from the island.

“Thought I’d bring you some leftovers,” he says quietly, and puts his crossword to the side, “see how you two were doing today. Come, sit, I’ll make you a plate.”

He pours his daughter-in-law a cup of coffee first–black, just the way she likes it–and then starts pulling neatly stacked Tupperware containers out from the fridge.

She sits and watches, not entirely recovered from her nap yet.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the blonde tells him even as her stomach begins to growl at the scent of freshly cooked turkey and homemade stuffing.

But he just shrugs. “Alex said you two weren’t really going to be doing anything, but I thought maybe you might like some food. And,” he says as he loads her plate up with beans and mashed potatoes, “it’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen her. Wanted to give you two some time to yourselves, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to check in. Your grandma make it back to Florida okay?”

Ashlyn nods. “Yeah, she said you dropped her off at the airport, so thanks for that.”

But Ken shakes his head in response. “No thanks necessary,” he tells her, “it was good to have her here. I know how much Ali loves her, and if you couldn’t be here, your grandmother was the next best thing. She kept Ali smiling.” 

He smiles as he says it, and hands her the warm plate of delicious-looking food, but the guilt diminishes her appetite.

“And don’t bother feeling bad about leaving, Ashlyn,” Ken says, looking her straight in the eye, “there’s no way my daughter would have let you stay, not for her.”

Ash is silent for a moment, looking down at her hands, letting his words sink in, letting herself feel their honest weight. And when she meets her father-in-law’s eyes again, it’s with gratitude.

“Thank you,” she says, and takes a bite, almost moaning at the way the turkey seems to melt in her mouth, “and for this too.”

They sit quietly in the kitchen, Ken working on his crossword puzzle and Ashlyn slowly enjoying her Thanksgiving feast, tossing out an answer every now and again.

It’s over pie that their conversation veers serious again.

“And how’s our girl today–you both were out like a light when I let myself in,” Ken asks as he drops a dollop of whipped cream on his slice of apple pie.

She debates for a moment, trying to decide how much to tell him, knowing that Ali has been trying to keep some of the more painful realities of her cancer treatment and the effects of the chemo from her parents and Kyle, their friends and teammates.

But she can’t lie to Ken, not to the man who gave her an unexpected kiss on the cheek after he walked Ali down the makeshift aisle at their wedding.

“Nausea this morning,” Ashlyn fills him in, “pretty bad. But the nurse didn’t think we needed to go in for a drip, so it could have been worse. And tired after. We went for a short walk early this afternoon, once she felt better, but it wore her out pretty quickly.”

She knows she made the right choice when he blinks and nods his head, like she was just confirming what he already knew.

“Thank you,” he says to the blonde, “Ali only says ‘it could be worse’ or ‘everything’s looking good’ when I ask. I know she’s only keeping things from us because she doesn’t want us to be afraid, but filling in the blanks on our own is even more terrifying.”

Ashlyn lays a hand on her father-in-law’s arm. She understands, she truly does. The only way she’d let herself be talked into leaving her wife was if Ali told her everything, if Ali promised not to leave her in the dark.

“The doctors really do think she’s going to make a full recovery,” she tells him, and hopes that helps to ease his mind.

“And,” he struggles to find the words he wants, “beyond the cancer? How is she doing ….”

The question fades off–incomplete–in the quiet of the kitchen, but Ash knows what he’s asking, what he’s trying to say.

“You know Ali,” she starts with a heavy sigh, “she’s trying her best to be positive, trying to be strong. She doesn’t want her illness to burden anyone else.”

Ken’s fork scrapes against the plate as he pushes around the last few crumbs of pie crust left behind.

“She’s always struggled with weakness,” he agrees, “it’s an inherited trait, I’m afraid. And I think the troubles her mother and I had when she and Kyle were young, and then Kyle’s own problems later, just made it all the harder for her to be vulnerable.”

“Except with you,” he says and looks up at the blonde, and Ash knows it’s a plea for more, for insight into how his only daughter is really, truly doing through this period of their lives.

“She’s terrified,” Ashlyn admits, relieved to finally talk to someone, truly talk, about everything. “It’s 2012 all over again, and she’s terrified that she’ll be left behind again while everyone else goes off to win a gold medal in Rio. She’s angry at her body for letting her down, for betraying her. And on top of it all, she feels like she’s disappointing all of us–you and Deb and Kyle, me, the teams, the fans. She’s struggling, but she doesn’t talk about it, won’t talk about it. Not more than a word here or there.”

She takes a breath, and in a way, it feels like a weight has been lifted.

“And at some point,” Ash continues, “she’s not going to be able to hold herself together anymore, hold all of this inside. The doctor’s warned her, the nurses, the counselor they send around to talk to you while you’re confined to the chair at the hospital having toxic chemicals pumped into your body–everyone. At some point, it’ll be too much, and she’ll hit her breaking point.”

The older man gives her a sad smile. “I thought as much,” he says, “but I’m glad she has you, because I know–we all know–that when that point comes, you’ll be right there with her, and help her through it.”

Ken sits up straight on the stool, a familiar serious look in his eye. “Don’t feel like you have to hold everything together for the both of you,” he tells her. “I know I’m probably not your first choice, but if you need someone to talk to or someone to help put you back together, all you need to do is call.”

“I know,” Ash says gratefully, fighting against the urge to cry, to hug him.

They make small talk until Ali wakes and stumbles into the kitchen, almost tripping over the fleece blanket she’s wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. Ken kisses her forehead as she shakes her head and turns down his offer to make her a plate.

“What are you guys talking about in here,” the brunette asks as she leans into her wife, voice still thick with sleep and huskier than normal, a side-effect of all the recent nausea, perhaps, or even the chemo itself.

“Nothing much,” her father answers.

“Just things we’re thankful for,” the blonde adds, smiling softly at the woman she loves.

Ali just rolls her eyes.

* * *

_[December 2015]_

The breakdown happens just a week later.

One morning, Ali wakes up feeling almost okay, tired and sore, but like she could actually eat something and keep it down, maybe even put on her running shoes and take a stab at hitting the treadmill.

But when she gets out of bed and sees the small clumps of hair there, left behind on the pillow, her almost-okay day comes crashing down around her.

Ashlyn finds her on the floor of their bedroom, kneeling before their bed as if she were praying. And maybe, maybe she is.

Her wife doesn’t need to say anything, the blonde understands the moment she sees what Ali’s holding in her hands.

“Honey,” she says, unable to keep the sadness from her own voice, “honey.”

And when Ali tries to apologize later, for grieving for something so inconsequential, for something so impermanent, Ash lifts a finger to her wife’s lips, and holds it there.

“Shhh,” she tells the woman in her arms later as they sit, wrapped in a quilt, on their bed and watch the snow fall, “don’t you dare, Alex. Get upset. Get as upset as you want. Cry and shout and punch something if you need to. It’s absolutely okay, and if you ask me, babe, it’s a little overdue.”

And Ali listens.

She leans back against her wife and rests her head on Ash’s chest, right over her heart, and lets herself mourn the impending loss of her long, beautiful hair. The loss of her opportunity to carry a child–Ashlyn’s child, the child she wants so badly to raise with her wife, with the woman she loves.

Ali lets herself get angry about everything that’s happened over the past few months, the way her body–one of the things she could almost always count on–had become almost a stranger to her. The nights spent afraid of what the next day might bring, what bad news the doctor might bring them next. The worry about everything and everyone, how her illness would affect the people she loves, the game she loves.

Safe in the warm embrace of Ashlyn’s arms, the heavy weight of the quilt a comfort over them, she curses and rages and grieves.

And it feels good.

It feels like the first sunny morning after a long season of rain.

She feels lighter and even though nothing’s been changed, even though her hair is still falling out and there’s still an ache that seems to radiate all the way into the marrow of her bones, even though she’s got another treatment in just a few days, and then a whole new round after that, she feels better.

A weight has been lifted, the weight of thinking she had to keep it all together, the weight of believing she had to be strong. For herself. For everyone else.

“Thank you,” she whispers later, and tangles her hand in the collar of Ash’s sweatshirt, pulling the other woman’s head down to leave a kiss along her wife’s jaw.

But Ashlyn just looks down at her, confused.

“For understanding,” Ali clarifies, “for not jumping in with an offer to cut your own hair off or telling me it’s just hair, something like that.”

* * *

Kyle calls that evening–she’s almost certain Ash texted him–and she spends over an hour Skyping with him from the couch, Ashlyn out running errands.

“You know,” he says near the end of their conversation, “at the very least, you married a woman with excellent taste in hats.”

When Ash comes back, she finds Ali laying on the couch, laptop open on her stomach, a happy, sleepy smile on her face.

 _Thank you_ , she mouths to Kyle, who blows her a kiss before signing off.


	12. Chapter 12

_The call comes late one evening, after they’ve already gone to bed.  
_

_Ali’s only just begun to drift off under her girlfriend’s pleasant weight, the familiar warmth of Ashlyn’s head on her shoulder, legs tangled together under the thick duvet that the November chill warrants._

_She throws an arm to the bedstand, to silence the loud ringing, and somehow manages to silence the noise that’s intruded into their quiet sanctuary. Within minutes, seduced by the steady, soft snores from her companion, she’s slipping under once again._

_In the morning, she remembers._

_And when she listens to the message, when she sees the email, suddenly, for the first time since she arrived in Europe, she doesn’t know what to do._

_She’s torn._

_She’s happy here. She’s made a life here. She has a team and friends and a favorite cafe just down the street and around the corner, a market where she buys fresh pastries and loaves of rich rye bread._

_But more than that, this is where she fell in love._

_This is where she learned what love truly is, the give of it and the take. How it isn’t always easy or sweet. How sometimes it’s hard, really fucking hard, but how it’s always, always, always worth it in the end._

_But._

_But then there’s home. Her mother and her father, her brother. Her oldest and dearest friends._

_There’s the language she speaks and the little things she never thought she’d miss, but she does._

_If she could pull herself in two, split herself down the middle, and be in two places–two bodies, two hearts, two souls–she would. She’d send half of herself home, let that self be wrapped up in her mother’s hug, her brother’s smile, her father’s wordless pride._

_And the other half?_

_The other half she’d keep here. In this little flat in this warm, foreign city that she’s grown to love like a second or third or fourth home. She’d stay and see her girlfriend on the days when there isn’t a match or a practice, take the long train out to Duisburg, or wait with a hot cup of coffee at the Frankfurt station.  
  
If she could, Ali knows, she’d take it all, everything she wants. The here and the there and she’d lose nothing in the in-between, the spaces that don’t quite overlap._

_But that’s not possible._

_She’s going to have to choose._

_They’re going to have to choose._

_When Ashlyn steps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her hips and another twisted atop her head, she finds the brunette sitting at the kitchen table, fingers drumming nervously against the scarred wood._

_“Hey,” she says, “everything okay?”_

_“You should check your phone,” Ali says._

* * *

_[December 2015, cont’d]_

Christmas falls at the end of Ali’s final recovery week, in the days just before her final chemo treatment.

And it’s the strangest blessing they’ve ever received. Because they know now, the experience of three rounds behind them, what that means. The first part of the week will be rough after her second treatment of the cycle, Ali feeling run down and weak. But each day will have her feeling a little stronger, a little better.

By Christmas Day, hopefully, she’ll be up for a the holiday celebration, the festivity and the fun.

It won’t be like the years before, they’ll keep the celebrating cautious and quiet, but for the first time in a couple of months, finally, there’s something to look forward to. Something to be excited about.

* * *

It’s the night before Christmas, and their home is anything but quiet.

It’s warm and it’s full of noise and everywhere she looks Ashlyn sees happy, smiling faces.

The moms are in the kitchen, mixing up cocoa and arranging freshly baked cookies on a big plate. Ali’s dad is kneeling before the hearth, arranging logs into the perfect form for a roaring fire, while Kyle and Ashlyn’s father argue over which coast has the best waves. Chris whispers something to their grandfather, while Elise talks animatedly with his wife, hands busy with yarn and needles even as she turns to nod over in Ashlyn’s direction.

And Ali?

Ali sits in the middle of them all, watching everything with a sleepy look.

She’s tucked, half-reclined, into the big, comfy chair they’d bought together a couple of years ago, back when Ashlyn’d had surgery on her shoulder and couldn’t sleep in their bed at first.

She’s wearing one of Ash’s old UNC hoodies, soft and worn-in, that hangs loose around her frame, and her head is covered by a knit cap, a present from one of the nurses they’d befriended at the hospital. Her feet, snug within a pair of warm, fuzzy socks, peek out from under the gentle rose-colored blanket Elise’d made for her during her last visit, when Ash had been away. It’s been a familiar sight around the house over the past few months, the baby-soft yarn a comfort against Ali’s skin, increasingly irritated by the chemicals in the chemo, and the warm weight of it perfect for a nap on the couch or a couple of hours in a treatment chair at the hospital.

Ash watches from across the room, taking a minute to take in the little smile on her wife’s face, how young and beautiful and pleased Ali looks as she takes in all the people around her, their conversations and their happy laughter.

But what makes the blonde’s own smile stretch even wider, looking over at her wife, is the the way those strong hands stroke so delicately, so gently, over the back of their little niece, all tuckered out and sprawled across her Aunt Ali’s lap.

“You okay there,” Ash asks in a whisper, coming to kneel at Ali’s, “she’s not too heavy?”

But Ali just shakes her head, content to let the little girl nap atop her as she drifts in and out herself.

“We’re good,” she answers, reaching pull a little more blanket over the toddler, “just waiting for Santa.”

* * *

Ali wakes early, before her wife for once. She takes a second to look, to watch the blonde as she sleeps, as her chest rises and falls, slowly and steadily. And when she stands, she smothers a laugh as Ashlyn grunts softly and rolls over onto the empty half of the bed, arms spread wide across the large mattress.

Briefly, she considers slipping back under the covers, fitting herself along her wife’s long, firm body, maybe pressing a kiss to the warm skin of Ash’s strong, muscled shoulder, just where the strap of her sleep tank meets the back. But as much as she wants to, as much as she wants to take advantage of this morning, the energy that comes so rarely these days, there are things she wants–she needs–to do before everyone wakes, before everyone starts to arrive for the day.

Downstairs, she finds her mother sitting at the island in the kitchen, drinking coffee as she reads the paper.

“Merry Christmas, ma,” Ali says quietly, coming to sit on the stool next to the woman she’s loved since before she even knew what love was, what it meant to hold someone else safe in your heart. She leans into her mother’s side, enjoying the familiar scent of citrus and spice that seems to follow Deb’s every move.

“Merry Christmas, Alexandra,” Deb says, wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “You’re up early this morning, couldn’t sleep?”

But Ali shakes her head. “No, just want to finish something before the day gets going,” she says and holds out something to her mother.

It’s a scarf, almost done. Long and wide, stripped in blacks and grays and whites.

“It’s beautiful,” Deb says, and rubs the yarn between her fingers, “it’s for Ashlyn?”

And Ali nods.

“I ordered all her other gifts online, but you know how she is about the cold weather. It’s dumb maybe,” she says shyly, “I mean, I could have just bought one, I know. But Elise taught me when she was here in October, and I just got the idea when–”

She rambles, and Deb smiles gently at her daughter’s uncharacteristic nerves.

“She’ll love it,” the older woman interrupts, wrapping the scarf around Ali’s own neck. “Soft and warm and something you made for her? I promise you, Alex, she’ll love it. Now, what do you have to finish on it?”

They spend the rest of the early morning tying yarn fringes to the ends of the scarf and then wrapping it carefully in a box covered with silver paper, adding it to the collection of gifts under the tree just as Ali hears her wife open their bedroom door.

* * *

The presents have all been opened. The turkey eaten, the wine drunk.

And now they sit, everyone who’s left–everyone who didn’t have to leave to pack for an early flight, or put a little one to bed, or travel to someone else’s celebration–in the living room in front of a warm fire, drinking cider and talking about little nothings.

Kyle’s sprawled across the rug on the floor, a large fleece blanket wrapped over his shoulders like a cape, and recounting the time he rode his bike right into Deb’s flower garden, flipping right over the handlebar into her hydrangeas.

“I still can’t believe you thought the dog did it,” he tells his mother, whose face is red with amusement and embarrassment at only discovering the truth now, years later. “Tucker had to be the laziest dog I’ve ever seen, there was no way he was going to bother with digging in your flowers.”

Ali laughs from where she’s sitting on the couch, legs stretched along the length of it and Ashlyn between them, resting her head against her wife’s chest.

“Do you remember that time we had a big family party and I got tired–” Ali says before her mother cuts in.

“–Do you mean the time everyone thought you’d wandered off or was kidnapped during the family reunion at the park?” Ali’s mom says, looking over at her daughter from where she sits in the big reclining armchair.

Kyle starts to laugh now, and under her head Ash can feel the rise and fall of her wife’s chest.

“I remember that,” Kyle says, “you were what, four? They called the police and everything.”

“Really,” Ash says as she twirls the fringed ends of her scarf between her fingers, “I’ve never heard this story before, what happened?”

Ali groans, knowing that the whole story is bound to come out now.

“Well,” Kyle sits up with an eager grin, looking pointedly at his sister, “you know how touchy someone can be. All these old aunts and uncles and people we’d never met before kept hugging us and kissing our cheeks. And that one over there got fed up with it. So she shoved a bunch of cookies in her pocket–”

“–It wasn’t a ‘bunch,’” Ali protests, “it was like three. Three cookies.”

But Kyle ignores the interruption.

“And she took a bottle of what she thought was our mom’s soda but turned out to be a fuzzy navel wine cooler, and hid under a picnic table at the far corner of the site.”

“Yes,” Deb adds, “it was truly a highlight of my parenting career when the police officer found you asleep with a half-eaten cookie and an empty bottle. Your father and I went from scared-to-death that something had happened to sheepishly trying to explain to the officer how we’d lost track of our toddler and let her get passed-out drunk. Truly a cherished family memory.” But she rolls her eyes, time having tempered the experience.

Ashlyn can’t stop laughing, it’s just too perfect a story.

“What happened?” she asks when she can catch her breath.

“All I remember is throwing up in the car on the way home,” Ali says, and when she looks up the blonde can see how her wife’s gorgeous smile reaches all the way up into her eyes, the slightest blush of red on her cheeks, embarrassment or warmth or maybe the glass of wine she had with dinner earlier.

Deb nods along, “You threw up more than once, if I recall, and missed your soccer game the next day. You were so upset because it was your turn to play goalkeeper.”

“Just think, Ash,” her brother-in-law says, “if not for a wine cooler she could have been your competition instead of your right back.”

“Nah,” the blonde says, shaking her head, “probably better she missed that game. Can you imagine her in the goal?”

The room erupts with laughter then, and Ali pouts in return, lower lip stuck out dramatically until her wife shifts, stretches, and softly kisses her.

“I like you just where you are, baby,” Ashlyn says.

Ali kisses her again. “Yeah,” she says, “you just like the view.”

“Well, that too,” her wife says with a chuckle before turning to lay again, watch the fire twist and jump as the Kriegers talk softly around her.

* * *

_[January 2016]_

Ashlyn can’t sit still, her knee bounces up and down until Ali reaches over and places a hand just inside her thigh. But even then, the blonde can’t seem to contain the nerves, the anxiety, the excitement running through her body.

“Now,” the doctor continues, “as far as we’re concerned here, you’re officially in remission, which means that there’s no evidence of growths on your remaining reproductive tissue or anywhere else, and no sign of cancer cells or indications in your bloodwork.”

Ali squeezes her wife’s thigh, not even realizing how tightly she’s holding on until Ash slips her hand under the other woman’s and squeezes back with the slightest look of discomfort in her eyes.

“Sorry,” Ali whispers, and then turns back to the doctor, “Okay, so what does that mean–I’m cured?”

But Dr. Tzotz shakes her head. “What it means is that we can’t identify any malignant cells in your body. There is a possibility that the cancer will reoccur at some point in the future. But, if you reach five years of remission without any relapses, that’s when we feel comfortable more comfortable saying that the probability of remaining cancer-free is high.”

“So it’s just a waiting game,” Ashlyn asks, brow furrowed. It’s not that the news isn’t good, but the idea of spending the next five years on edge, just waiting for the other shoe to drop, is more than unappealing.

But the doctor shakes her head and smiles gently. “Not quite. It just means that we’ll continue to monitor Alexandra for signs of new cancer cells, but in the meantime, you both should start getting your lives back to normal. Try to remember what it was like before chemo and CA-125 readings.”

Ali leans forward in her chair, “Does this mean I can start training with the team again?”

“Well, I know you want to rush right back into your training schedule, Alexandra, but your body has been through a lot in the past few months. You’ll want to talk things over with your doctors and your trainers, but you were in prime physical condition when you started treatment, which really contributed to the way your body handled the chemo and other drugs we threw at it. So while you might not bounce back immediately, I have no doubt that you’ll get back on track quickly,” Dr. Tzotz tells them.

“But remember,” she continues, “don’t over-exert yourself too much too soon. Take it slow and steady, communicate how you’re feeling to your medical team, and most importantly, listen to your body, okay?”

They leave the office smiling, and the nurses and techs, so used to tears and grief, stop them along the way with hugs and congratulations and well-wishes for the future.

And then, then they’re free.

Finally.


	13. Chapter 13

_In the end, it’s easy. **  
**_

_Ali wants to go home._

_There’s going to be a team in D.C., and she’s all but guaranteed a place on their roster._

_And Ashlyn?_

_Ashlyn wants Ali._

_Maybe it would have been different if Duisburg was the kind of team that would truly advance her career, or if she had something to stay for in Germany. But her only real tie to the country is Ali._

_And if Ali’s not here, Ashlyn doesn’t want to be either._

_So she negotiates out of her contract and packs up her small flat. “I’m not doing this for you,” she promises Ali over and over again as they sign their papers committing to the new league, still uncertain of what teams they’ll be playing for._

_Still, though, Ali worries. Worries that her girlfriend is doing this for all the wrong reasons, that Ash is giving up the things she wants for herself in order to be what Ali wants, what she thinks Ali wants._

_But Ash knows what she wants. And she knows how to get it, how to keep it._

_There is no choice but the one she makes._

_“I’m not following you home, Alex,” she whispers at night, ghosting her lips over the pale skin of Ali’s spine, “you are home.”_

* * *

_[February 2016]_

Getting back into competition shape is hard. It’s painful and exhausting and there are days when Ali can barely kick her shoes off before she collapses on the couch after a round of conditioning with the trainer.

But it gets better.

Slowly–excruciatingly slowly–she feels herself get stronger, faster, nearer to where she’d been before everything fell apart.

But Ashlyn is always there. At her side, encouraging her. At her back, urging her on. At her front, there to catch her if she falls.

Ash is always there. Honest. Kind. Harsh when she needs to be. Gentle. So, so strong.

Some nights she wakes Ali up with the smell of dinner cooking in the kitchen, or gently untying her shoes and covering her up with a blanket. Some nights she brings buckets of ice into the bathroom for them both to sit and soak in, to relieve the aches and strains of training on their muscles. Some nights they sit in front of the fire and talk about all the “what ifs” that await them.

_What if Ali never gets back to the level she was before the diagnosis._

_What if the cancer returns._

_What if Ash gets called up for the next camp and Ali doesn’t?_

_What if she does?_

_What if neither of their names are on the roster for Rio?_

What if … what if … what if?

But together, they silence the wondering thoughts, the voices of doubt, of fear.

Together they train. They sleep. They love.

And life, as it does, falls back into place.

* * *

Ali sleeps in late on Valentine’s–a Sunday, a rare day off from their official training schedule. 

Ashlyn, as always, wakes early. She smiles down at the woman currently buried under the heavy weight of blankets, at Alex’s open mouth, the tiniest shine of drool there.

Her wife is adorable when she sleeps, all innocence and trust. It had taken Ash a little while to get used to it, how easily the brunette had curled into that first night they shared a bed, just snuggled up into her side with a soft sigh as sleep overwhelmed them both. And sure, awake that next morning, the nerves had come out, and the fear. But as she gave Ali the time and space the other woman needed to figure out what she was feeling, what she needed and wanted, it was the memory of how Ali had sunk into her body, such trust that Ashlyn would keep her safe, hold her tight, that kept her hope alive.

Now she’s so used to it that when they’re not in the same bed, when she can’t feel the movement of Ali’s breathing against her chest as she spoons the older woman from behind, it feels odd, off, and the blonde finds herself reaching out to an empty side of the bed for the warm body that isn’t there.

This morning, she presses a gentle kiss to the brunette’s forehead, whispering “I love you, Alex,” as she shimmies out from under her wife’s embrace. This morning, she has things to accomplish, errands to run.

* * *

They decide to stay in this year. The hustle of the crowds, the usual mid-February cold snap, the chance that something will get past Ali’s still-recuperating immune system, it’s just smart, they agree, to keep their celebration simple.

So it’s a quiet day, for the most part.

A light training session in the morning, Ali running on the treadmill while the blonde lifts weights at the bench in the corner of the room. And then yoga to cool down, to relax. There’s a long bath together, scented oils to set the mood, Sam Smith playing in the background.

And then the kitchen, where they spend the rest of the afternoon cooking, Ali chopping things under the blonde’s careful supervision, sneaking little slices of tomato and cucumber from the salad she’s preparing at the island while her wife works on layering noodles and meat and sauce for the lasagna.

“You know,” Ashlyn teases as she threatens to poke her wife with a fork, “aren’t wives supposed to know how to cook for their spouses?”

Ali just looks at her for a moment, eyes narrowed.

“Ashlyn Harris,” she answers back, schooling her features a horrified expression, “I cannot believe I married an old-fashioned sexist.” But the laugh she can’t quite keep buried betrays her amusement, and she sticks out her tongue at the blonde before leaning up to lick at a small dot of pasta sauce on Ashlyn’s cheek.

“Ashlyn Krieger-Harris,” the other woman responds, “and besides, I’m going to make you do our taxes, so I’m not a complete cavewoman.”

The smile is worth the swat she receives, absolutely.

“You’re only saying that because you’re terrible at filling out official paperwork,” Ali teases back.

* * *

She’s nervous.

There’s so much she wants to say, so many things she wants Ashlyn to know.

And, not for the first time, her words are failing her.

How do you thank someone for saving you, for saving you from yourself? How do you thank someone for teaching you what life is meant to be like, what love truly feels like? How do you thank someone for filling all of your empty spaces with their light and their laughter and their love?

How do you thank someone for being your world, for being the one thing you couldn’t live without?

Because Ashlyn is all these things to her.

And so much more.

And the more she thought about it over the past weeks and months, the more she tried to put into words what she knew so intimately, so intuitively in her heart, the less she could think to say.

The gift is just a gesture, just the closest she could find to represent all the words she feels inside of her, aching and wanting to be free.

Still.

She’s nervous, and Ashlyn hasn’t yet said a word.

* * *

“You bought us a house?” Ashlyn says once the words on the paper sink in to her head, “You bought us a house in Florida?”

Ali sits across from her at their dining table, amid the flickering light of candles and the dirty dinner dishes. And there’s a look on her face that just might be fear, or worry. Almost like she’s afraid of what she’s done.

“It’s not final, not yet,” her wife mumbles quickly, words falling off her tongue, “I mean, we can still retract the offer. But I saw a picture of it online, and then I had our moms go to an open house. And it seemed perfect, everything about it seemed perfect.”

“Honey,” Ash says, rising to move and kneel next to the other woman, “Alex. Start from the beginning, tell me.”

And so Ali explains. Tries to put into words what she feels, what this house means, to her, to her dreams of their future.

“I love you, Ashlyn, I love you so much. And you’ve been amazing these past months–I just, I wanted to show you how much I love you. I know how much you love Florida and the beach, the warmth and your family. At first I was just looking for a house to rent for a honeymoon, some place to spend a few months after the Olympics before the next season starts.”

The blonde presses her forehead against Ali’s, lets her hand run through the soft fuzz there, the dark hair that’s quickly growing back.

“Alex, you don’t have to–”

But Ali doesn’t let her cut in.

“–Shhh,” she says, and then continues, “But then I came across this house. This perfect little bungalow right off the beach. And I could see us there. You surfing in the mornings, drinking coffee together on the balcony, watching the sun set at night. I could see this whole life together there, and I wanted it–I want it. So I put in an offer. But Ash, if you don’t like it–”

Ashlyn lifts a finger to the other woman’s lips.

“–My turn,” she says, placing a gentle kiss at the corner of her wife’s mouth.

“My gift isn’t as big or impressive,” Ash laughs softly, “but I hope you’ll like it as much as I love yours.”

She pulls an envelope from where it had been hiding under a napkin on the table and hands it to her wife to open.

The smile starts in the corner of Ali’s mouth and grows and grows and grows, until it’s spread wide across the brunette’s face. Big and awed and wonderful.

“Australia,” Ali squeaks, her voice high with excitement, and Ash nods.

“I was thinking that we needed a honeymoon–some place warm,” she says and fakes a shiver. “You can chill on the beach, we can get some surfing in, maybe a little scuba diving. And then we can come back to our beach house in Florida and do the same thing. Until you’re bored of the sun and I’m more wrinkly than a raisin.”

Ali looks at her for a long moment, eyes gentle as she drew her lower lip between her teeth, almost shyly.

And then she’s slipping off her chair onto the floor, and they kneel face-to-face.

“I love you, Ashlyn. You are my light, and you chase all my shadows away. I love you with my whole heart, I always will,” she whispers before tilting her head to kiss her wife, softly, at first, and then deeper, the candles still flickering around them.

* * *

_[March 2016]_

Ali gets the call-up for the Algarve. And even though she’s pretty sure she’ll end up riding the bench for the whole of the tournament, she’s just happy to be in uniform again, just happy to be with her team, on the field and off.

Jill kindly assigns her a single room, and pulls them off to the side to tell them that, despite the usual rules, if certain individuals were to need the support of certain other individuals as they prepared for the tournament, it would be tolerated this time and this time only.

In the elevator, Ashlyn laughs loudly. “She totally gave us the okay to have sex in Portugal,” she says between guffaws.

“She did not,” Ali says, and rolls her eyes as high as they will go.

But she doesn’t ride the bench the whole time. And neither does Ash. Jill swaps the goalkeepers out, game by game, and even though Hope still plays in the final, shutting out the competition to take home the trophy once again, it’s no longer assumed that she’s the go-to goalkeeper for the USWNT. Ashlyn makes a number of great saves, and only lets a single goal through in the minutes she plays, and it’s clear that Jill–that the entire team–have begun to consider her as far more than just Hope Solo’s back-up.

Ali, too, gets minutes. Ten here, fifteen there. Her longest time on the pitch is in the final, Hope at her back and Kling, Becky, and Julie at her side. She plays the entire second half, and at the end, she’s tired but proud. She did damn well out there and she knows it. Everyone does.

She’s not a 90-minute player right now, not by any means, but she’s getting there.

She’ll be there.

* * *

_[May 2016]_

When the phone rings, Ashlyn’s out of the Spirit locker-room, another early season win under D.C.’s belt. She finds Ali in the tunnel, looking out at the vibrant green of the pitch, want and longing strong in those dark brown eyes.

She knows her wife, knows she wants to play more than anything. Knows how hard it was for her to tell Mark she was planning on sitting out at least half the season to prepare for a potential Olympic call-up, knows that if the news is bad, Ali’ll be out there the very next game, suited up and ready to play. But it was a smart decision, and Ash supported it–she’d support any decision Ali made–from the start.

Still, the blonde knows that watching games from the sidelines is hard. And so when she comes up behind her wife, she wraps her up into a hug, one hand covering the brunette’s eyes as she moves her mouth to Ali’s ear.

“It’s your favorite goalkeeper,” Ash whispers with a tease.

“Oh,” Ali answers, “Hope? Aren’t you supposed to be in Portland today? You better watch out, my wife’s around here somewhere.”

Ashlyn laughs. “Oh, har har,” she jokes, letting Ali turn around in her hug, “you got jokes, hey?”

Ali smiles, and opens her mouth to respond but whatever she was going to say is lost to the sound of Ash’s phone ringing from her pocket.

“It’s Jill,” the blonde says, and looks at her wife with uncertainty in her eyes, “should I answer it or have her call back later?”

But Ali grabs the phone and swipes to accept the call, pushing it back in Ash’s hands just in time for the other woman to stutter an awkward hello, watching as her wife chats with their coach.

* * *

She knows.

She knows before Ashlyn even gives her answer.

Her wife’s been named to the Olympic team. She can see it in the way Ashlyn’s eyes close, as if she’s thanking someone for granting her prayer.

“Yes, Coach,” Ash says into the phone, “I would be honored to join the team for Rio.”

And Ali feels her heart fill with pride.

Her wife will be on the Olympic team.

In that instant, she realizes that this is enough. This is enough for her. To see Ashlyn realize her lifelong dream of going to the Olympics, to see her wife’s face fill with joy as the American flag is lifted, as the American anthem is played? To watch from the sidelines as Ash makes their country proud?

It’s enough.

Years from now, she’ll look back on this moment, this single second, and know–this is when she realized what love truly, truly is. What it means to love someone else wholly, entirely, more than you love yourself. 

This is the moment she understands that love is bigger than anything she’s ever known or felt or wanted. Anything she’s ever been or done.

Infinite, love is infinite.

“Yeah,” she hears Ash say on some other level of her mind, “she’s right here.”

And then there’s a gentle shake of her shoulder to pull her back into focus, into the here and the now.

The blonde looks at her curiously. “Jill wants to talk to you, Alex,” she says in a funny voice, quiet and small. Like she’s afraid of what words might slip through the phone and into Ali’s head, like she wants to take the news herself, so she can protect her wife just one second longer, temper the news if it’s bad, prepare her if it’s good.

But Ali’s not afraid. Not now.

Not after everything–the leg, the knee, the cancer. Not after the epiphany she’s just experienced.

She’s ready for anything.

She’s ready for this.

* * *

_[August 2016]_

It’s the sweetest sound they’ve ever heard.

_U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!_

The crowd chants it over and over again as the podiums are prepared. As the golden confetti continues to fall.

And then, silence.

Throughout the whole stadium.

Silence.

She doesn’t see the flags as they are raised.

Not Brazil’s, the proud host nation cheering with pride as their team receives their bronze medals.

Not France’s, the team struggling with the frustration of joy at being on the silver podium and regret at not taking home the gold.

All Ash hears, all Ashlyn sees, is Ali.

They stand, wrapped up in an American flag, on the highest podium. Surrounded by their teammates who are more than teammates, friends who are more than friends. Surrounded by the women who have become their family.

She stands, arm wrapped around her wife’s waist, and lets the tears fall down her face. Lets the fears and the frustrations, the pains and the griefs of the past year fall with them.

“Alex,” she whispers into her wife’s ear, “we did it.”

And then Ash hears nothing, the entire world drowned out by the feel of her wife’s lips on hers, tears mingling together on their cheeks.

“Yeah,” Ali whispers as she pulls back, “we did.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Epilogue**

_There’s a room in their house that is hardly used. Years of memorabilia line the walls, fill the shelves; medals and trophies, plaques and awards, flags and boots and kits.  
_

_They rarely go in, never have the urge to run their hands over the glinting, gleaming metals, to look over the framed photos, the clippings cataloging their triumphs over the years._

_There’s no need._

_The championships, the medals, the acclaim, it’s been wonderful. They’ve been so lucky and so blessed, in family and friends, in talent and team._

_But, they know, all the best years are still ahead._

_Just waiting for them._

* * *

_[April 2017]_

“Sarah?”

Ali scrunches her nose as she reaches up into the cabinet for some mugs, giving Ashlyn a tantalizing view of her bare flesh as the big tshirt she’s wearing rises up the back of her thighs. When she turns, mugs in hand, she’s lit from behind by the early morning sun, her beautiful brown hair crowned with a soft, golden halo.

“Which one–Huffman, Hagan, Robinson, or Killion?” Ali answers with a smirk as she sets one cup down in front of the blonde at the table and takes her own seat on the other side.

“Okay, okay,” Ash concedes, “we know too many Sarahs. Scratch that one off the list.” She looks over at Ali’s mug enviously, eyes pleading.

But Ali just shakes her head. “Sorry, babe,” she teases, “you know the deal. Decaf only. Doctor’s orders.”

The smile she can’t hide is tiny, but Ashlyn catches it, of course.

“Tell me, Alex,” she says with a grimace as she contemplates the caffeine-less cup of coffee sitting before her, “how much are you enjoying this? Truly.”

She feels Ali’s bare foot tease at her, the way it stretches under the table to bridge the gap between them. Feels the brunette run it up and down her leg, caressing the strong, firm muscles there.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Ali smiles, taking big drink from her own mug.

Ashlyn narrows her eyes for a moment before giving up with a long-suffering sigh.

“Okay, what about Callie,” she suggests in-between scowling sips of her now lukewarm coffee and exaggerated fake gags.

“No characters from _Grey’s Anatomy_ either,” Ali protests, unable to keep from laughing and sputtering coffee over the table.

* * *

_[July 2017]_

The midmorning sun shines, warm and bright, in through the large windows of the small bedroom just down the hall from their own. The whole room seems to be lit in gold and fire between the strong rays of sun and the butter-yellow walls, the pumpkin-orange trim.

When Ali finds her, when she peeks into the room from the hallway, Ash is sitting in the white wooden rocking chair they set up in the corner, right next to the matching crib. Her eyes are closed and her hands are folded sweetly over the gently roundness of her belly as she slowly rocks back and forth.

“Hey,” Ali whispers softly, not quite wanting to break the quiet and the sanctity of the moment, “there you are.”

The blonde turns her head and gives her wife a soft smile.

She’s beautiful. She’s the most beautiful person Ali’s ever seen.

She always has been, Ali knows, but there’s something about now, about seeing Ashlyn grow and change as she carries their child, that is truly breathtaking.

It’s everything. It’s the soft roundness of Ashlyn’s face, the glow of her skin and the way her hair is thicker, wavier than it’s ever been before. From her fuller breasts and the way her nipples have changed–now darker, thicker, more pronounced–to the gorgeous curve of her ass, the slightest widening of her hips as her body prepares to give birth, as grows and grows and grows. Every day, they’re closer to meeting their child, their baby girl.

“Hey,” Ashlyn answers back, “is it time to go to this team get-together that is most definitely not a baby-shower for me or a retirement party for you?”

Ali knows her wife is right, the girls haven’t exactly been subtle about this out-of-the-blue meetup. “Almost, but first you should change your shirt,” Ali says with a grin, taking in the jeans and t-shirt that clings to her wife’s belly.  
  
The blonde scowls at her, looking down, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” she asks.

Ali steps into the room and takes Ashlyn’s hands to help her up out of the chair, something that’s harder and harder for the other woman to do on her own these days, before handing her a package wrapped in blue and white, with a neatly tied ribbon.

“It’s not this,” she says, and watches as Ash opens the gift.

‘This’ is a jersey, a USWNT goalkeeper jersey with Ash’s number and their names sewn in white on the black fabric.

“The team had it made. Pretty sure it’s the only maternity goalkeeper’s jersey anyone’s ever asked for,” the brunette jokes as Ashlyn unfolds it and lets out an appreciative whistle.

“Yeah,” Ali says, and reaches for the shirt to hold it open so her wife can slip her arms in and helps her pull it down over her thin tee, “they got a big kick out of customizing that.”

Because, as the blonde noticed immediately, there’s something a little different about this jersey.

The three stars are there, and the US Soccer crest, sitting right over Ash’s left breast as usual. And her own number is where it always is, the big ‘1’ that she inherited when Hope announced her retirement earlier in the year, right smack in the middle of her chest .

But under that, centered in the middle of her round, swollen belly, is another number, a little ‘1½.’

“It was Pinoe’s idea,” Ali tells her wife, well-aware that hormone-induced tears are likely on their way, “They didn’t want you to feel left out just because you’re watching today instead of playing.”

And it’s that that does it, the thought of their friends and their kindness, that has tears spilling out of the corners of Ash’s eyes.

“Yes, yes,” Ali laughs as she pulls on her own jersey, her number ‘11’ and ‘Krieger-Harris’ displayed proudly across her strong shoulders.

“Now, let’s go,” she tells her wife, pulling Ash toward the door, “or we’re going to be late.”

But the blonde stands still for a moment longer, wiping at her eyes, before taking two quick steps toward her wife and pulling Ali into what starts as a sweet kiss but quickly turns passionate, lusty.

“Okay,” she says, stepping back as Ali grins stupidly at her, brain still caught up in the depth of that kiss, “ _now_ let’s go.”

* * *

Ashlyn fidgets in bed, kicking the sheets off her legs and toward the end of the bed, hot and bored and unable to fall asleep.

“Hey,” she pokes jealously at the woman beside her, “wake up.”

But Ali just groans in her sleep at first, slow as ever to wake.

“What, what is it,” the brunette asks as she blinks hard and struggles to figure out what’s going on.

At first, Ash feels a little embarrassed. And sorry for waking Ali up just because she’s bored. But when her partner rolls over onto her side so that they’re laying face to face, her expression more annoyance than worry, the goalkeeper feels a little justified.

“What’s the matter, Ash,” Ali yawns, “why’d you wake me?”

Ashlyn fixes her with her most intimidating stare before answering, though it goes unnoticed between the long blinks of Ali’s heavy, sleep-laden eyes.

“Names,” she answers with a smirk that a more-awake Ali would know to be suspicious of, all mischief and mirth.

Ali _hmmms_ and opens those perfect brown eyes, “Whatcha got?” Her words are only just the slightest bit slurred as she licks at the corner of her mouth, the little adorable trail of drool there.

“Caroline, or Carolina? Maybe Grace for a middle name?”

She’s picked her time well, Ash has, because Ali takes a moment to consider the idea, to roll it around on her tongue, imagining an eternity of calling after, of chasing, a little Caroline around their home. But as she scoots closer to Ali, until her swollen belly rests against the curve of the brunette’s strong hips, she sees understanding bloom across the other woman’s tired face.

“What about Penelope,” Ali asks, all innocence as the blonde chuckles next to her, “we could call her Penny.”

The bed shakes with Ash’s laughter, and Ali smiles as she reaches over to wrap an arm around her pregnant wife’s waist.

“Okay, okay,” Ashlyn concedes, “no alma mater names either.”

They lay for a few minutes, just content to be together in their bed, Ali curled around the bump of their baby between them. It’s early, too early to be awake, and there’s not a sound in the house but for their breathing, the house settling around them, a car passing in the street outside.

“So, what did you really wake me for,” Ali whispers, fingers digging into the tight muscles of Ash’s lower back, trying to help relieve some of the ache that the long last months of pregnancy have created there.

“Can’t sleep,” Ash admits, “your kid is keeping me up.”

“Yeah?” Ali says, moving her hand to rest on the mound of Ash’s belly, just under the light tank that her wife’s worn to bed, “you bothering your mom, kiddo?” She leaves her palm there, just over the spot where the baby’s been kicking all night long, and her touch is warm, but soothing, too.

Slowly, the little kicks and turns begin to calm down under the brunette’s fingers, and Ali tilts her head in toward the blonde, kissing teasingly at Ash’s sulky lower lip.

“What else,” the brunette asks, “why can’t you sleep, babe?”

The temptation to whine is strong, and Ashlyn can’t quite reign it in. Not this late at night, not this late in her pregnancy.

“It’s so hot, Alex,” she whimpers, with maybe the most helpless moan that Ali’s ever heard in her voice before, “and I can’t get comfortable. Every time I think I’ve found a good position my back starts to hurt, or my feet go numb, or she starts to kick and move again.”

Ash looks into Ali’s eyes, how they reflect the soft, bare light of the moon that’s fallen into their bedroom.

“I’m just tired, Al, I’m so tired.”

“I know,” Ali whispers and kisses Ash again, sweetly, this time. “But it’s almost over. Anytime now. And then we’ll be tired for completely different reasons,” she says and smiles, hoping the blonde can hear the honesty in her voice, the apology for not being the one to do this, carry their child. For not being the one to suffer from the aches and pains of pregnancy, the swollen breasts and queasy stomach, the odd pains and the hormones constantly in flux. The stretch marks and the weight at her hips and the need to pee every twenty minutes. The kicks and the hiccoughs and the wanting everything to be over, now, this very moment.

It was supposed to have been her. It was supposed to have been Ali who stepped out of the spotlight after the Olympics and their golds, who slipped into retirement with a thanks to her fans and a statement about focusing on her family now. It was supposed to be her here in this bed, near to tears because she was so tired of being pregnant, of having her body inhabited by someone else.

If not for the cancer, the surgery that meant she’d never carry a baby for her wife, the treatment that could have killed her as easily as it saved her.

So now it’s Ashlyn who’s pregnant, who’s taking a year off for her–for their–family. Now it’s Ash who’s beautiful and miserable and so, so ready for their baby to be born.

“Here,” Ali says as she sits up and reaches over for the body pillow that’s helped sometimes on other nights when the blonde couldn’t sleep. She helps Ash arrange it between her legs, helps her get as comfortable as she can in these final few weeks of pregnancy, and then lays back down, running her fingers through her wife’s long, loose locks as she starts talking about nothing, just saying whatever comes to her mind, hoping the sound of her voice will help lull Ash into sleep.

The goalkeeper locks their eyes, staring into her, into the very heart of her, into places that only she’s ever seen, ever been privy to.

“Thank you,” she says, and buries her head deeper into her pillow.

“I love you, you know,” Ali whispers into the dark as her wife’s breathing starts to slow, starts to settle its comfortable, familiar pattern.

Ash smiles, just the slightest.

“You too.”

* * *

_[August 2017]_

When the baby comes, it’s a beautiful late-summer day. The sky is a perfect clear blue–no clouds in sight–just the warm rays of the Atlantic sunrise peeking gently through the window of their hospital room.

It’s a wonderful day to be born, to welcome a new life into the world.

Ash’s labor is short, relatively speaking, and for a few minutes the blonde is convinced that their baby will end up being born in the backseat of Ali’s BMW as her mother drives them toward the birthing center. But they make it to the hospital with time to spare and just a little over two hours later, with about a dozen pushes, they’re mothers. And their entire world changes, all in sound of a single, screaming breath.

They have a daughter, a howling baby with blonde-brown fuzz for hair and Kyle and Ali’s mouth, her fists clenched in furious rage–the famous Harris temper, Ali jokes when she calls her brother later.

But a warm blanket and Ali’s strong, sturdy arms seem to calm their daughter down as the brunette slowly, carefully, moves toward the head of the bed with her precious, precious cargo. And by the time Ali lays her bundle down in Ashlyn’s ready, waiting arms, the baby’s cries have turned into quiet whimpers, the shock of the morning’s events, of being born, already tiring her out.

“Hey,” Ali whispers in awe, unable to look away from their daughter, this little girl who’s a part of them, their love, their life, “we did it.”

Their daughter blinks up at them, muddy blue eyes that will soon turn brown, and Ash runs a pinky over the soft pink lips, heart skipping a beat when the baby starts to suckle gently at the tip and the reality of everything sets in.

She’s a mom.

They have a daughter.

Ali captures the moment forever on her phone, the first picture of her wife and their baby girl together. And it’s perfect. They’re the most beautiful things she’s ever seen, with Ash’s reverent smile and their daughter’s sweet, soft face.

The smile on her own face, as she stands over the two people she loves the most, is wide, uninhibited. And even though she’s terrified about so many little things, standing there at the first day of the rest of their lives, she’s not afraid. She’s not scared.

She’s happy. She’s in love.

She’s blessed, and she’s lucky enough to know it.

“Yeah,” Ash answers, reaching out her hand to link her fingers with Ali’s, “we really did.”

* * *

_[July 2019]_

It’s different on this side of the bench, sitting in the stands with her brother and their parents. It’s different watching and not playing, especially here, especially for a game like this. Another World Cup Final.

And there’s a part of her that aches to be down there, suited up in her neat blue kit, boots polished and fitted to her feet like a second skin, an extension of her own body. She can almost smell the grass, the crisp tang of adrenaline and sweat.

But that part of her life is over now.

It’s so much louder in the stands than on the pitch. Or maybe it just seems that way, surrounded by the crowd of fans and family. They’re shouting and cheering and roaring at every point the US scores, every ball her wife saves.

The game is a close one, even in the last minutes. The two teams are well-matched, and Ali finds herself holding her breath every time England makes a run on the goal, hoping and praying that her old teammates, and the new rookies who have been called up in the two years since she said her goodbyes, can hold onto their lead, can earn themselves a decisive win without the threat of extra-time or penalty kicks.

“Here you go, here’s your mama,” Kyle says in a sing-song voice, carefully lowers Ali’s daughter into her lap.

“Thanks, babes,” Ali tells him as the little girl–almost two now–wraps tiny arms around her neck. Her daughter is wearing a miniature US goalkeeper kit and smiling widely around the toy in her mouth, a rubber bath shark Ash’d given her the night before that became an instant favorite.

“There’s my Charley, my bright girl,” she says, “were you good for Uncle Kyle? Are you all clean now?”

Charlotte bops the shark against her mother’s nose, and Ali pretends to bite at it in return as Kyle reaches over to tug teasingly at one of his niece’s tiny pigtails.

“All clean,” he confirms, and makes a silly growling noise at Charlotte, then laughs when she giggles and smiles back at him, when she gives him the same smile he sees in the mirror every morning, the one he and his sister and their mother all share.

“Good,” the former player answers, and then pats her daughter’s belly, pointing out to the field.

“Look, Charley,” Ali says, “can you see mommy? She’s about to be a world champion again.”

But the historic last minutes of the game–as the United States becomes the first team to win four Women’s World Cup tournaments–are lost on their daughter, who’s talking to herself as Ali holds her in her lap, letting the little girl play happily as her mother watches the pitch.

The referee blows the whistle and it’s over. The US has done it again, and Kyle reaches in his backpack for a pair of child-sized headphones, ready to pass them over in case the excitement and uproarious reaction of the crowd scares Charlotte.

But the toddler seems to take it in stride, already at home in the loud celebration of fans cheering for a US win, for her mother’s team. She’s used to the soccer pitch, the stands, cheering for the National team, for the Spirit. Charlotte lifts her arms up and cheers as she’s seen her family members do time and time again, and Chris makes silly faces at her from over Ali’s shoulder.

“Charley, we won,” Ali says, tears in her eyes as she watches her wife on the pitch, as she sees Ashlyn hug her teammates all round her, and then break away, running over to the stands where she knows her family will be waiting. The family makes their way toward the wall, Charlotte clapping her hands and chanting “yay” softly as they move.

Ashlyn is the first player there, the first one to reach the stands and to climb the tall wall, Kyle and Chris helping to pull her up, and then she’s wrapping Ali and their daughter up in a happy hug, kissing Charley’s forehead before moving to her wife, giving Ali a brief but deep kiss.

“Come down,” she asks, and looks at their brothers for help.

And then Kyle is carefully lowering his sister down to the pitch while Chris stretches and leans over the railing to settle Charley into Ash’s waiting arms. 

Ali’s dad tosses down a folded flag, and she unfurls it before draping it around her wife’s shoulders like a cape, and then, surrounded by their teammates, their fans, Ali pulls the blonde in for another kiss, Charley between them with an adorable grin. The three are oblivious to anything and everything around them, everything but each other and their tiny little happy family.

* * *

The next morning’s papers are full of pictures of the US team, medals hanging proudly from their necks, as they lift the trophy in triumph.

But the picture that Ali and Ash love the most, the picture they’ll have printed up and framed for their home, is one of the many taken by Kyle in those first few moments after the victory.

Two women, wrapped up in an American flag, kissing each other as a grinning Charlotte reached up to catch a piece of the red and white and blue confetti falling all around them.

 _This_ , he writes under the post on Instagram, _is what victory looks like._

**Author's Note:**

> "Cancer," My Chemical Romance


End file.
